supernormal
by cupcakeriot
Summary: She is different. She is magic. And her life is unbelievably beyond normal - it's supernormal. Featuring: M-rating for language and violence, magic rituals, strange creatures, stranger deaths, some citrus, realistic character development, and a super slow burn.
1. part 1:1: magic is real

**SUPERNORMAL: PART ONE**

* * *

 **one**

 **magic is real**

* * *

Ella is - _different_.

She's always _been_ different. She doesn't know why and it's not like there are many clues to piece together any answers. Orphaned as an infant, she doesn't know where she comes from and at this point in her life - a runaway in mid-December just on the cusp of turning sixteen - she doesn't know where she's going.

Ella has nothing to call her own, not even a last name. Her birth certificate, a crinkly, weathered thing from Persia - of all places - simply reads _Isobella_. No last name, no link to her parents. And no hope of one day finding an explanation for the _things_ she can do. For the things that make her _different_.

The things that make her a freak.

The things that make her freakishly _good_ at pick-pocketing.

Stomach cramped into an angry snarl, Ella hunches her shoulders against snowy wind and lets her gaze rove over the pedestrians ambling through the park. Most of them look happy. She tries not to let the contentment of other people bother her as she searches for her target.

There.

Thirty, ash-blond, wears a woolen coat that is in good shape but not _new-new_. Alone. Talking on the phone in an absurdly proper British lilt. Looks like exactly the type to carry a money-clip instead of a wallet. She falls into step behind the man, not too close, and ignores the rumbling of her belly as she focuses intently - _wishing, reaching, wanting_. She speeds her stride, then deliberately bumps into the man's shoulder.

She mumbles, _"Sorry_." Then between one moment and the next, the distinct crisp of cash slips between her numb fingers hidden in the pocket of the shabby coat she stole earlier that week. Success. Tramping down her elation at the promise of hot food, Ella strides past the man with an apologetic shrug, keeping her pace casual. Trying not to draw attention to herself.

But then the snow beneath her feet turns slick - and Ella finds herself on her back. She winces, hauling herself onto her elbows only to come face-to-face with the man she'd just robbed. He's crouching down beside her, staring pensively.

"Hardly the Christmas spirit to be thieving, is it?"

Her eyes widen. "I don't know what you're talking about," she bluffs.

The man snaps his fingers twice, flourishing two bills - the money she'd just wished into her own pockets - in front of her face. "And using magic to do it? Very naughty. Have you not been trained better? There's a code, you know."

Ella stammers, shaking her head. She's _never_ seen anyone do anything remotely close to what _she_ can do - and now it seems like she's found someone like her. Only, he's frowning at her now in concern as she says, "Magic isn't _real_."

The man looks pointedly at the ground.

Ella follows his gaze.

The ground beneath her isn't snowy or icy. It's turned into melted water in a perfect two-foot circle, warm and wet and seeping into her coat. She gapes.

"Magic _is_ real, lass," he says. Then, he holds out his hand with a friendly smile. "I'm Carlisle Cullen. Would you care to join me for dinner? You look like you've a lot of questions."

And normally, a strange man buying her dinner is, like, a _hundred_ red-flags.

But Ella goes - because magic is real.

Ella isn't _different_ , after all.

She's _magic_.

* * *

 **A/N: I had an _idea_. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	2. part 1: 2: the best coffee in the world

**two**

 **the best coffee in the world**

* * *

The diner Carlisle Cullen takes her to epitomizes the concept of _hole-in-the-wall_ , where business is quiet and the single neon sign hung in the window proudly claims, 'The Best Coffee'. Ella orders a cup, along with a cheeseburger and a double order of greasy fries. The food is good; the coffee not so much. It has a rancid, almost-burnt taste that lingers on the tongue and is darker than her hair. She tastes it and promptly thinks of sludge.

The coffee doesn't matter.

Carlisle Cullen wants to know her sad, orphan sob-story.

"Why?" she bites out.

He has odd eyes, a greyish-green that she hasn't ever seen before, like moss crawling over stone. "You're clearly magical and just as clearly untrained. That's not supposed to happen," he tells her seriously and she has the sense that he's deeply perturbed by her situation. "I want to know how a magical child slipped through the cracks and all the failsafes that our culture has put into place."

Ella traces her finger around the rim of the cup. And then - bidden by a sense of intuition that tells her to trust this man - she spills her sad, orphan sob-story, never once raising her eyes. She tells him about the bad luck that seems to follow her, about how none of the foster or group homes had lasted for long, about how nobody _listens_ to the kids in the system. She tells him about the strange things that happen when she gets angry or scared, and then she tells him that she's had enough after this last home and the pawing, drunken hands of the foster parent who was supposed to look out for her.

"I will never go back," she says boldly. She sips at the horrible coffee because it's warm, sitting heavy in her stomach.

Carlisle Cullen sighs. "You have to go back."

Something inside Ella flares wildly; the table rattles in response, salt and pepper shakers knocking onto vinyl. "After hearing all of that, you think I should go _back_? Are you _crazy_? No way."

"You're almost sixteen, is that right? How do you plan to support yourself - with pickpocketing? You need to go to school. You need reliable shelter and food. You need clothes without bloody holes in them," he counters calmly. Carlisle places his hand over her clenched fist, holding tight when she tries to pull away. "How do you expect me to adopt you if you can't be found in the system?"

The table stops rattling.

"You…"

"I should like to adopt you, yes. Preferably before you are too old to be adopted," he says kindly.

Ella goes back to a group home that night with the assurance that Carlisle Cullen will be doing everything he can to push his foster paperwork quickly through the system. He's sword a magical oath to her and one day soon, all of her official paperwork will read _Cullen_.

The taste of that coffee still lingers on her tongue as she huddles in a bedroom shared with five other girls. She smiles to herself in the dark, a pulse of _something_ \- magic? - fluttering in her veins.

It really was the best coffee in the world.

* * *

 **A/N: Updates are what we will call "sporadic".**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	3. part 1: 3: the druid and the magician

**three**

 **the druid and the magician  
**

* * *

Carlisle Cullen - her bona fide new legal guardian - is a high school guidance counselor who lives in a hamlet college-town called Charmstone in upstate New York. He owns more leather-bound tomes than should be possible and wears horn-rimmed glasses when he reads. He drinks Earl Grey, no sugar, dash of milk. He's a shockingly decent man.

He's also something called a druid.

"Teachers. Keepers of magical knowledge," he pontificates one evening. "By no means powerful - not wrought with magic like your lot, you see - but a necessary cog in the wheel."

Ella gestures to the untidy tower of books lining the walls of his living room. If she didn't know any better, she would assume that the spill over is because the books are _breeding_ , or something. Like rabbits. Every time she looks, it seems like there's more books.

"Have you thought about buying bookshelves?"

"I'm afraid that would ruin my organizational system."

"Wait. You consider this is _organized_?"

Carlisle scowls, bustling off to make tea in the tiny kitchen belonging to the tiny blue-toned house he owns in Charmstone. At first, Ella was perturbed by the bold shade of blueberry painted across the house, but now that she's been here a week, the various shades of blue have grown soothing. Everything is blue, except for her room _. Her_ room, the first one she's ever really had. Ella is newly seventeen, three months away from graduating high school, and officially named _Isobella Cullen_ \- and she finally has her own room.

Ella follows Carlisle into the kitchen. She is fully prepared to apologize for ragging on his "organizational system", but she comes to a stop at the kitchen counter, tilting her head in confusion. Where she had expected to see tea steeping in a porcelain cup, instead she sees a series of _very odd_ object splayed across white marble and most of them legitimately look like they belong at a Comic Con.

"Um…"

Carlisle turns, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Oh, good, you've come."

"What is all of this?"

"These are _foci_ ," he explains. "Objects to channel magical energy. Now that you're settled and safe, it's important we make up for lost time in training your magic. Ordinarily, we would already know what kind of magic you have - but aside from being quite remarkable, the only other thing we know about your magic is that you have quite a bit of it. Which should mean that you will require a foci to properly learn control and to perform more complex spells."

 _Foci, huh_? For objects that are apparently magical, most of them look like they came out of a Hollywood movie set - various thin wooden sticks, a twisting wooden staff with an orb at the top, a few key pieces of jewelry, and even what appears to be a crystal ball.

"Let me get this straight - in order for me to be magically trained the way I should have been when I was a kid, you want me to use a wand? Like, an actual wand?"

"Right in one," Carlisle smiles. "Of course, if the wand doesn't resonate with you, we will have to try the other objects-"

"I'm not using a wand," she says flatly. Magic that is most often out of her control or not, she's not an extra in _Harry Potter_ ; she hasn't needed a foci up until now, anyway. Why does he think it's so necessary, anyway?

"There is always the staff, or this crystal here-"

"Carlisle, no."

"Ella, _yes_."

In the end, she gets her way. Sort of. Ella Cullen doesn't claim a wand of her own and when she tries the staff, things tend to explode. Some of the jewelry is too frail, as her magic burns right through it, and the crystal ball shatters the moment she touches it. Oddly, all of these failures only make Carlisle _more_ excited, because apparently as she destroys the foci, she also rules out the class of magical being she is.

And then there is the ring. Forged with a hundred strands of different metal - pewter, gold, silver, titanium, platinum, iron - the ring sits prettily on the middle finger of her dominate hand, a flat, colorless stone pointing to the sky on top. Ella tries the ring on and suddenly, the roiling of _something_ \- magic - that is constantly thrumming like angry bees in her veins quiets. Calms down. Gentles.

She stares at the ring in bemusement. "Ollivander was right, I guess. The wand chooses the witch - er, the ring, I suppose. This is the one, right?"

Carlisle is staring, too, except he looks starkly _astonished_. He swallows. "You're a magician."

"Okay."

Carlisle's countenance becomes weighted. "You don't understand, Ella. You're a _magician_."

She sighs. "Elaborate."

He rubs his forehead. "Magicians are….rare. Very rare. That stone on the ring? It's called a magician's glass. It's only a stroke of dumb luck that I even had one."

"What does this mean, then?"

"It means that training you has just become our top priority."

* * *

 **A/N: Harry Potter references FTW.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	4. part 1: 4: accidental epiphany

**four**

 **accidental epiphany**

* * *

Instead of going to school and graduating from Charmstone High, Ella gets her GED online.

Honestly, it's safer that way for everyone.

The thing about training magic that hasn't been checked by _anything_ in seventeen years is this: _magic doesn't like restraints_. Ella is a walking _disaster_. Because her magic is tied so closely to her emotions, she spends half of her snippy teenage fits putting out literal fires that her magic has seen fit to start, and for that reason, she _absolutely_ cannot be around her peers. No way.

It's actually amazing that she hadn't inadvertently caused random bouts of extreme weather or blown someone up while she was stuck in the foster system. She thinks back to all those times when she was _so angry_ \- and wonders why it is that _now_ her emotions are causing her magic to haywire even though she's mellowed under Carlisle's guidance.

"Magical maturity," is his simple explanation. Apparently it's, like, _a thing_ for the rarified magician to reach a maturity of potential sometime after puberty. Luckily for her, that actualization happened _after_ a wily druid took her under his wing.

But then, there's the way Carlisle is pushing her in training. He's so cagey about it, so _worried_ about what might happen if she doesn't put a lock and key on her magic.

It's because of what she is.

She doesn't quite _get it_ \- the significance of her being a magician. How is it different from a witch or a warlock or a druid or a mage? They're all magic, right?

Except - no, Ella _is_ magic. She is a living wellspring of magic, able to tap into the magic of the world around her, able to see the ley lines and detect the lifelines of the people around her. She's no ordinary _wielder_ of magic. She is magic itself.

(Later, it won't feel so _cool_ to know that she's an embodiment of magical energy - because just like Isaac Newton said, _there's an equal and opposite reaction_. And the price for being a magician? Actually kind of steep.)

Carlisle is supportive, of course, and weirdly patient about her steep learning curve. It's always _try again_ or _be careful_ or _have you finished that annoyingly long book written in Latin that translations spells are horrendously slow about translating_? He's never mad at her when progress is slow-going, which is kind of weird. She's not used to male authority figures not being complete asshats.

So, when it happens that the rune she'd been writing on the oak tree in the backyard is massively overpowered, ultimately resulting in a _white-flash-bang_ , a felled tree singed by lightning, and a decidedly large lump on the back of her head - Ella cringes under Carlisle's stare, just _waiting_ for abuse to begin.

Instead, he hugs her, checks that the tree isn't going to spontaneously combust, and makes her drink three cups of tea absolutely teeming with daffodil, honey, and chamomile.

And it's like - that Christmas that they met, she never honestly believed Carlisle would stick around long enough for the year-long court battle for custody of her to actually happen. He proved her wrong, though, took off time from his job, made it a point to visit her frequently, and he never held anything back. And when she'd asked him _why_ he was bothering with her at all, he'd only smiled and told her it was his duty as a druid to look after the next generation.

At the time, the reasoning seemed solid. He had an obligation as a druid to make sure the world of magic and supernatural creatures was kept secret. He felt responsible for her.

But now that she's here, it's different. She doesn't think that his reasons are good enough anymore. Nobody is that kind or generous or morally righteous. She's been waiting for the other shoe to drop and today - she was _so certain_ she'd finally pushed Carlisle past his limit, that she'd finally been too much trouble, that he would reverse the adoption -

When he'd rushed out to the backyard and frantically checked her over, there was no hiding the abject worry on his face, or the softening of his eyes when she turned out to be mostly unharmed.

 _He loves me_ , she realizes with a wretch in her chest.

That night, she calls him by the name that he's earned.

"Goodnight, Dad."

If the suspicious thump of a heavy book falling onto hardwood is heard immediately afterward, Ella pointedly ignores it as she wanders off to her bedroom.

* * *

 **A/N: Drabbles are fun.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	5. part 1: 5: things best unsaid

**five**

 **things best unsaid**

* * *

Carlisle is on the phone.

"I have to tell her. She has to know what happened - Es, _no_ , I know you weren't -"

Ella shouldn't be listening. She shouldn't. But she is.

Carlisle sighs heavily. "Well, how would _you_ break it to an emotionally damaged teenager that you were the one to find her right next to her dead mother all those years ago, but that you and a banshee thought it best that she was handed off to The Coterie - who _said_ they would look after her - only to find out sixteen years later that _someone_ dropped the _bloody_ ball and that everything that ever happened to her was-"

Ella gasps, a shock of pain and anger and betrayal and _confusion_ lancing through her body. All of the light bulbs in the house burst, glass clinking onto the floor -

Carlisle drops the phone, spinning to face her. He blanches. "Ella-"

She shakes her head and books tumble haphazardly to the ground. "Is that true? Is all of that _true_?"

"I thought it was for the best. I thought I was doing what I was supposed to do. I never thought that The Coterie would allow you to be placed away from our culture - it's unthinkable -"

He doesn't lie; she can tell because her magic is strangely attuned to truthfulness and not once does she have the sense that he's bending the truth.

"But you knew me? That night we met, you _knew_ it was me?"

"Your magical signature did seem familiar, yes."

"I-I can't believe this," she mutters, swiping at the hot tears streaking down her cheeks. When did she start crying?

"You must understand, Ella, that there is a protocol for orphaned magicals," Carlisle explains gently. He holds his hands out, open-palmed. "I had no reason to believe otherwise in your case. You have to believe me when I say that I didn't _know_ …"

She swallows thickly, backing out of the room. "Sometimes, _Carlisle_ , there are things that are better left unsaid. And I guess you know all about that."

"Ella-"

She lets the backdoor slam behind her as she flees into the forest beyond the backyard.

* * *

 **A/N: Whoop, there it is.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	6. part 1: 6 : mother may i

**six**

 **mother may i**

* * *

It's something she's always wondered about. Who was her mother and father? What's in the blood running from her veins? What culture is she supposed to belong to? What ethnic group? Religion? There has never been a ready-made answer.

The anger was always there, though, simmering in the back of her mind every time the question was posed. " _What are you_?" was always met with hostility and a sharp retort.

 _Persian_ if one was to believe her off-mark birth certificate.

But the objective truth is this: Ella _looks_ like she could fit in with most cultures. There has always been something exotic about her bronzed complexion and her oil-spill dark hair waving loosely to her waist and the upward tilt of her eyes, which catch the light like frosty teal seaglass - but her bone structure, the sharpness of her petite frame, speaks strongly of European descent.

It's not unlike picking at a scab as she wonders where any of it came from. Worse now that there is some way to get the answers she's pined for - answers she's not unsure if she even _wants_. Or needs.

She's crying and doesn't even realize it, not until she's bracing herself against rough treebark and scraping her bare shoulder as her knees give out beneath her.

"Who was she?" she sobs. Mourning for the woman she never knew, but to whom she owes her life.

Behind her, a twig snaps and Ella abruptly realizes she is not alone. Her magic flares as she turns, glancing wildly about, only to spot a wolf treading - almost hesitantly - toward her. It's a beautiful beast, with a coat of copper-tinged gold and vivid amber eyes edged in verdant. A timber wolf, maybe, judging by the way the muzzle and collar are starkly white. It has a scar over one eye, which she only notices because the wolf does not ease it's approach until it sits before her calmly.

The wolf whines.

Ella mimics the tone as she whispers, "Who am _I_?"

The wolf licks her cheek, chasing away the salt trying on her skin. She has the sense that it understood her - and in the wolf, she senses something _other_. The woods are silent around she and her strange companion. Ella is glad for it.

Eventually, after the sun has set, the wolf wanders off into the forest, and Ella decides that she should, too. Navigating half-blind in the thicket of trees is only made easier because Carlisle's blueberry-colored house resides right over a ley line that converges somewhere on the other side of town. She's familiar with the energy.

She's less familiar with Carlisle's guilt-stricken expression when she finds him on the back porch, wringing his hands and standing immediately once she edges out of the forest. She stops, watching him wearily beneath furrowed brows.

"You're going to tell me everything."

Carlisle doesn't miss a beat. "Of course," he promises. "Anything you want to know. You have my vow."

* * *

 **A/N: Just gonna...go stand in a corner over there. Kay?**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	7. part 1: 7: one is the loneliest

**seven**

 **one is the loneliest**

* * *

A wolf howls in the dead of night - a long, drawn-out lament rising to the moonless sky to wake Ella from the clutches of slumber.

It sounds forlorn.

"Yeah," she sighs, pressing her face into her pillow. "Me, too."

* * *

 **A/N: Are you paying attention?**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	8. part 1: 8: raven

**eight**

 **raven**

* * *

"Such rage," says an orotund voice from high in the trees.

Ella pivots on her heel, glancing wildly about. Her hands are hot, flaring brightly with spurts of magic that is leaking out in time with the pounding of her heart. The forest bordering Charmstone has taken a lot of abuse ever since she found out that Carlisle - kind, fatherly, honest Carlisle - had known things about her life, known her, long before all this started.

It's been a week and even though she's demanded - and received - answers, her ire hasn't cooled.

Intellectually, she knows that it's really not Carlisle's fault. She can't even really be mad at him.

He'd been working for some magical network - The Coterie - that operated around the globe and he was a first responder on the night that her mother had been assassinated by something called The Order, who apparently went around ridding the world of supernatural people who were too powerful. The Order had killed her mother by mistake; Ella's magic had killed them in return.

She's glad she was too young to have that memory.

But still - what happened between Carlisle and his banshee partner handing her off to the proper authorities and Ella ending up in the foster system?

And then there's a fresh guilt slashing across her soul. Ella's mother was dead because Ella is a magician, because Ella exists. Was the same true for her father?

Those are thoughts that Carlisle can't rightly respond to - he honestly doesn't know. After her case - that's what he calls it - Carlisle had promptly retired from The Coterie at age twenty-three and he hadn't looked back. He'd moved to Charmstone and did his due diligence as a druid.

He hadn't done anything wrong.

And yet she's still so enraged - enough so that it's better for everyone if she's either sequestered in her room gouging charcoal into her sketchbook or out in the forest letting her magic run loose. Otherwise it's completely possible that her inner-turmoil will manifest in something that isn't as manageable as a magical temper tantrum. The ring on her finger has been hot like burning for seven days, the magician's glass cloudy and dull. Her directionless anger is like poison.

She hadn't counted on hearing voices in the trees, though. That's new.

"Who's there?" she finally demands once she can't manage to locate anyone, either with her eyes or with her magic.

"You've been calling for me," answers the voice. "I apologize it's taken so long for me to arrive. I had quite a ways to fly."

"Fly?" she wonders with a raised brow.

A raven with wings black as knight and eyes shining like onyx flutters down onto a lower branch, tilting her head in a birdlike fashion. The raven flaps her wings. "What else would you expect of your familiar?"

"I didn't know I had a familiar. Or even that I _could_ have one."

"You have need of me," answers the raven.

And apparently _that is that_.

Ella names her Raven and finds comfort in the pinch of talons digging into her shoulder, the smoothness of a beak pecking tenderly at her ear and the cluster of piercings there. The magic in Raven is in utter sync with Ella; explains why she couldn't sense the bird before Raven made her presence known.

Her magic settles into some semblance of peace, like a truce on a hair trigger.

* * *

 **A/N: As a point of artistic expression, I will _not_ be doing any disclaimers or spoilers about characters. There is a reason why I've only put _Bella_ so far and called it a _supernatural_ genre. I have a plan. It's all about the reveal, folks. If at any point you don't like what I've done with a character? Click the red X! Don't like, don't read is my policy!**

 **That said, have I ever led you astray?**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	9. part 1: 9: restless

**nine**

 **restless**

* * *

Summer passes in a slow haze. Heat waves press against upstate New York with respectable tenacity, but the summer rains are never far behind, charging the air with an ambient electricity as thunder gathers overhead. Thunderstorms in Charmstone are something to be amazed by - Ella has never felt so in-tune with the world around her.

But she knows it won't last. She isn't the sort to be content sitting at home, day in and day out. She needs _movement_ and _sound_ and something to distract her from the ruminating thoughts in her mind.

(Thoughts that stray ever-so-consistently to the utter shitfest her life has been - and the reason why.)

The expansive forest in Charmstone is only so occupying after a time, especially as she does not run into that wolf again, nor does she hear its cry in the middle of the night. Raven keeps her company, swooping in the sky with an exquisite sort of grace that Ella feels compelled to capture - in ink, in paint, in photographs.

But the fact of the matter is that between Carlisle's stout competence in training her and the magician's glass ring calming the roil of her magic, Ella doesn't need to be stuck at home. Not anymore. Magic comes to her as easy as breathing now that she has a modicum of control over it. She's as educated as she can be - there will always be something to learn - and with the basics down-pat, she's no longer a danger to anyone.

She's restless.

And so she takes to addressing the summer heat by painting honey-sugar runes onto the house, cooling the rooms inside with magic rather than electricity. She experiments communicating with Raven silently, which is both cool and convenient. She even annoys Carlisle into teaching her the subtle magic of potioneering, which she is decidedly _not_ naturally gifted at, similar to her hopelessness in cooking. She refines the way she sees the lifelines the world around her, teaching herself to block the information out and call it at will.

The novelty has worn off.

And one night late into the summer, Ella announces, "I want to apply to the college here, Viridity University."

* * *

 **A/N: The chapters will not be of consistent length or will they be very long at all. Sort of the point of a drabble.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	10. part 1: 10: paint it, black

ten

paint it, black

"Ella, this is Black. He's a professor at Viridity, head of the art department."

Ella takes in the towering frame of the man casting shade in the doorway of the garage-turned-art studio that she has claimed as her own personal space. He's obviously of Native American descent, with deep russet skin, strong, deep-set features, and long black hair brushing against his shoulders. He wears feathers woven into his hair on one side of his head. His age is unclear, though he holds his bearing as someone who has seen many, many years. He's also wearing clothes that have long-since been stained by paints.

He's also radiating an _energy_ that makes her think of herbal smoke and a deep connection to the natural flow of the universe. A shaman, then.

She puts down her paintbrush, wiping lurid blood orange paint on the back of her jeans. "Hey."

Black nods at her, silent and stoic.

Carlisle clears his throat, stepping backward with raised brows. "I'll just, ah, go make some tea."

The garage is silent for a beat, except for the acoustic beat filtering in from the speakers she has rigged to the Bluetooth on her phone.

"Where is your portfolio?"

She starts at the question, then frowns. "I, uh. I don't have one."

"You applied to the art program," Black says. "It will be hard to accept you to Viridity without a portfolio."

"Right," she sighs. "But see - I haven't had a lot of stability in my life. Carlisle is, like, the only good thing that has happened to me, and even that is a little fucked up. So, no, I don't have a portfolio exactly, but you're here now. Your in my studio, which is kind of like my portfolio…"

Black crosses the space in a few strides, staring down at her with fathomless eyes. His gaze shifts to the wide canvas sitting on the easel behind her, a half-complete mixed-media in vivid violent hues and crushed glass, sand, and salt. "Tell me about this one," he prompts. "What do you feel when you look at it?"

"Pissed," she answers promptly. "Mad as hell. Like I could set the world on fire if only it would guarantee to burn out injustice."

He hums. "You see anger. I see pain."

She crosses her arms over her chest, her ring glinting on her finger; the magician's glass is clear, just like her state of mind. "Yeah, well, I've found that part of being mad comes with a bit of angst, so I won't deny it."

Black looks around the garage, now moving to inspect the photographs she has hanging from swooping twine, crisscrossing the room with partially-blurred images, many of them of the destruction her magic caused in the forest. "And these? What did you feel when taking these?"

Ella shifts on her feet, her stomach sinking. Black's shaman magic projects his emotions pretty clearly along his earth-toned lifeline, even if his expression is stony. He is in turned intrigued, concerned, and disappointed. When she answers, her voice is less confident than before. "I was seething when I took those."

Black turns back to her, a contemplative sheen in his eyes. "Are you only made of anger?"

"Of course not!"

"Your art would suggest otherwise," he says pointedly.

Her magic flares and the air in the garage grows cold. "So that's it, then? All you see is, what? Pissed off teenager, raging at the world for no good reason?"

"I can't help that all I see is all that you are willing to show. Your work is incomplete, almost dishonest because of this."

"My _art_ is honest," she protests, drawing herself up as she argues, quite aware that this is some sort of _test_. "What you see is what I feel, what I see, what I've taken from the world. Life _honestly_ sucks!"

Black's smiles. "Paint it. But you are capable of more and you are capable of learning," he tells her seriously. "Consider yourself accepted to the program, Ella Cullen."

A/N: One more before Part One is officially done.

As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.

~cupcakeriot


	11. part 1: interlude

**interlude**

* * *

Carlisle sits in a booth in the back of Sam's Diner, idly organizing the small square ceramic bowl full of sugar packets as he waits. He is not nervous. He is never _nervous_ around the woman he waits for, but he will not deny that she inspires complex feelings within him. Mostly, he supposes, a sense of longing and a terrible wretch in his chest that cannot be avoided because of circumstances that are beyond both of their control.

Sam's Diner is in the epicenter of Charmstone's small city proper. Right off the town square, it is slightly run down and outfitted with furnishings and dishware that do not match. There is no menu, though that is to be expected; Emily, the owner's wife, is touched by a djinn heritage - only instead of knowing the heart's deepest desire, she has an uncanny ability to predict orders for Sam to cook up.

"You're early," says Esme as her heels click briskly against the vinyl flooring. She is right, of course, because Esme Platt is _never_ late.

His heart leaps in his chest once he lays eyes on her, just as it always has. She is well put together, her burnished auburn hair is neatly styled into a loose coil, gimlet eyes and plush lips emphasized by careful application of make-up, and the round curve of her hips emphasized by a smart pencil skirt. She kisses the corner of his mouth before she sits on the other side of the booth.

"How are things at the newspaper?" he asks, speaking of the business she promptly bought with the retirement from The Coterie, _The_ _Charmstone Chronicle._

Esme waves her hand gracefully. "Oh, you know. Weekly town meetings, the play put on by the elementary school, and the _special_ stories behind the obituaries. People live and people die. But that isn't why you want to meet in such a public space, is it?"

Carlisle feels heat rise on his face and he clears his throat. "Meeting in public is a necessity, I'm afraid," he answers, adjusting his glasses.

She nods with a sultry smile. Yes, they both know the trouble of meeting in private - their attraction to each other is so potent that they would never get around to discussing the topic of import. It is too easy to get caught up in each other, even after all these years.

"Ella knows," he says lowly. "About her mother, about how we found her in that dingy little apartment."

Immediately, Esme's expression morphs into one of concern. "She didn't take it well, I suppose."

"She's coping."

"Poor child."

"She's starting at Viridity this semester."

"Ah." Esme's eyes alight with understanding. "You're worried now that you know what she is."

"Things will be drawn to her," he says urgently, leaning forward. "I've been researching, consulting other druids more familiar with magicians. And Esme…outside of the heavy wards of my home, it is inevitable that moths will be attracted to her flame."

Her hand covers his, squeezing softly. "But I take it she is sufficiently trained?"

"As well as I am able."

"Very well," Esme says decisively. "As you know, my own daughter attends the university, as well as several children of Coterie allies. If it will ease your mind, I will instruct Alice to keep an eye on Isobella."

"Thank you."

"Think nothing of it, my love."

Carlisle exhales slowly, thinking once again of the circumstances keeping them apart. He has never wanted to live his life apart from Esme, only able to warm her bed because banshees are forbidden from marriage until they have fully trained their offspring. A matriarchal group of creatures, it is vitally important to the harbingers that there is no interference in rearing their children. But now that Alice is eighteen and coming into her own power, Carlisle was having trouble sticking to these sanctions.

"Speaking of Alice," he begins cautiously, very much aware that once he speaks, he's opening up a topic that has been verboten between them ever since they were paired as partners with The Coterie. "How is our daughter?"

Esme's gaze is knowing. "I think she is ready to meet her father."

* * *

 **A/N: AND THAT'S A WRAP ON PART ONE.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	12. part 2: 1: a charming reality check

**SUPERNORMAL: PART TWO**

* * *

 **one**

 **a charming reality check**

* * *

Charmstone is almost laughably small, but as a new member of such a tight-knit community, there are several things that Ella becomes acutely aware of once she ventures away from the forest and Carlisle's house.

Like, town meetings are apparently _a thing_. They happen weekly and they're loud and not very productive at all. It is at her first of these meetings - which Carlisle always makes a point to attend but which she hadn't been allow to attend before - that Ella realizes that the human to supernatural ratio in Charmstone is _seriously_ imbalanced. For every one human, there seems to be at least two of something else, and _boy_ are there a lot of different _something elses_.

She'd known from Carlisle's books that the world was full of creatures that go bump in the night and that magical beings - druids and witches and magicians - were just the tip of the iceberg. It's actually a little overwhelming for Ella's keen magical senses to be confronted with all these different types of supernaturals all in one place.

"Holy shit," she breathes, freezing behind Carlisle as she enters the meeting hall just off the town square. At least a dozen eyes flick over to her, dead giveaways that those with sharpened hearing had definitely heard her epitaph, but she seriously doesn't care. Ella is dizzy, blinking rapidly against the bright overlap of lifelines clamoring for her attention.

There's only so much her magic intuitively knows, so she can only _definitively_ identify a handful of creatures - a few werewolves, a notable ghoul, a couple of hedge witches, and many humans who instantly ping as _almost-not-human_. Those are the _potentials_ , she knows. Humans who would be receptive to transformations just simply on a biological level, or are otherwise in tune with magic without actively possessing magic - humans who carry a spark of potential. Everything else, though? White noise as far as Ella's magic is concerned.

She almost turns tail and flees from the overload.

Only Carlisle's supportive hand on her shoulder, leading her to a nearby chair, stops her from skipping out. "You'll get used to it," he says confidently.

Ella snorts indelicately. "At least now I know why you insisted I come if Viridity is going to be anything like this."

That's the other thing - the fact that Viridity is almost exclusively a university dedicated to supernaturals, like the Ivy League equivalent of the supernatural world with vast amounts of funding and degree options. It's why she wants to go in the first place.

The reality, though? The Viridity campus, located on the far side of Charmstone and nestled deep into the Adirondack Park under _super heavy_ wards to keep it hidden from malicious or too-human notice, is home to at least a thousand supernatural college students and potentials and humans in-the-know of the supernatural world.

If she can't handle a town meeting with less than fifty attendees, then how is she going to make it at Viridity? Especially because she's planning to live on campus and has already secured a part-time job at the Student Center to pay for her extracurricular art supplies.

She needs to figure out a way to cope - quickly.

Ella sits in an overwhelmed daze for the majority of the meeting, _almost_ completely missing the dispute about a couple of redcaps that the local werewolf pack is having trouble hunting down - redcaps are apparently as wily as they are annoying. The mayor, John Newton, who is a human who _knows_ and is obviously more of a figurehead than an actual leader, is quick to cede the floor to a tall woman with honey-brown hair.

The woman positively radiates a primal sort of power and even having only met a wolf in the forest once, Ella immediately knows that this woman is the alpha-wolf of Charmstone's pack. Possibly even Charmstone itself, going by the way the town hall quiet once she stands in front of the podium. She doesn't bother to step on stage and use the microphone that John Newton has been sweating over - she doesn't need to.

Everyone is listening when she talks, cool and calm. "We need volunteers," she says. "Preferably a magic wielder. If you're interested, we will be hunting the redcaps near Beacon Lake this Saturday at sundown - those insufferable creatures seem to be weaker on the waning moon, so this will be our best chance. Any takers?"

Ella raises her hand, blinking away the confusing tangle of lifelines screaming for her attention so she can _focus_.

And she is so busy berating her impulsivity and ignoring Carlisle's long-suffering sigh that she misses the way verdant-edged amber eyes flash bright gold in her direction.

* * *

 **A/N: And we're off on Part Two!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	13. part 2: 2: hey, it's alright

**two**

 **hey, it's alright**

* * *

The gnarl-knit charcoal sweater slips from her hands when the long-winded howl rips through the nighttime forest - and Ella, stunned to hear the wolf again after all this time, is quick to move to her bedroom window.

Paint flakes off the window pane as she unhatches the lock and pushes upward. She sticks her head out, searching futilely for the source of what sounds like a _super_ angsty howl. Ella can almost feel the wolf's pain.

But of pain, Ella has many thoughts. And so before she goes back to packing for her move into the Viridity dormitory, she sets her eyes on the thin silver crescent moon overhead and says, "Hey, it's alright. Pain makes you feel alive."

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you for the ADF Fic Dive recommendation!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	14. part 2: 3: so prissy, so awkward

**three**

 **so prissy, so awkward**

* * *

Viridity University, spread out over a couple dozen acres and surrounded by tall, elegant fencing, is all ivy-covered stone and iron benches and sprawling courtyards shaded by squat maple and birch trees. Even the dorm buildings look like they've been transplanted from Europe long before the days of modern plumbing. Which makes sense, considering the Viridity has been around before America was even colonized.

Back in those days, Viridity was a finishing school for wealthy magic-users who didn't understand the meaning of _inclusive_ \- but that's not the point. The _point_ is that Viridity sits right over the convergence of ley lines that Ella has felt the moment she stepped foot into Charmstone.

Getting a good taste of the walloping repelling and protection wards - probably carved right into the foundation of the building - Ella finally understands that the college is the center of Charmstone. Not the town square. Not the Adirondack park. But _this -_ this school filled to the brim of people involved in the supernatural world.

A safe haven.

She immediately feels at home in a way that hasn't ever quite _clicked_. Now, it does.

She resonates at Viridity.

It must show on her face because Carlisle chuckles to himself as he hefts a box into her dorm building - Red Lily Hall, aptly named for the little pond on the nearest courtyard that exclusively caters to red water lilies. It's pretty. She wants to capture the bold shade of carmine, either on film or canvas.

Still, she narrows her eyes at Carlisle. He's red in the face and huffing a bit from the weight of the box. Ella rolls her eyes, mutters a short incantation under her breath, and then snaps her fingers at the remaining suitcase and boxes. Carlisle's burden lifts from his hands, hovering just above his palms.

He frowns at her. "Magic for an arbitrary purpose? Ella, you know better."

"But you're not exactly complaining, are you?" she points out wryly, shouldering past him and trotting up the stairs. The luggage and the rest of her belongings follow along, floating through the air obediently. She looks over her shoulder with a sharp smile as she reaches the second floor. "And it's not like it's cheating, is it?"

"Actually, use of supernatural elements within the dormitories is strictly verboten, unless in case of an emergency," a prim voice says in obvious disapproval. The face belonging to the voice is equally as pristine, with alabaster skin contrasting with a neat dark auburn pixie cut and light green eyes, like peridot. The girl is petite, an inch or so shorter than Ella, and dressed in white skinny jeans, a soft lemon yellow silk blouse, and strappy white sandals embellished with flowers. "Is this an emergency?"

"That sounds a bit judgey," Ella scoffs.

"Well, I am the Resident Advisor for Red Lily Hall, so I have a reserved right to judge as much as I want where applicable," she says, pointedly tapping the clipboard in her hands. "Name?"

She raises her brows and suddenly Ella's magic stirs in recognition of the odd shiver connected to the girl's pale grey lifeline - and the high-pitched whistle in her ears that she already knows only she can hear. Not human, then. Feels a bit cold, like a harbinger.

 _And kind of bitchy, so she must be a banshee,_ Ella thinks snidely.

Still, she bites her tongue, trying to keep her tone polite as she answers. "Cullen. Ella Cullen."

The girl pauses. "Cullen?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Oh, Alice," says Carlisle as he reaches the top of the staircase, deftly dodging the still-levitating boxes. He clears his throat, adjusting his glasses nervously.

Alice looks a bit disarmed. "Carlisle. What are you doing here?"

"Helping my daughter move in," he answers, and then makes a strange expression. "That is, my adoptive daughter."

"Thanks," Ella says flatly of his awkward clarification.

"Oh, Ella, I didn't mean-"

She rolls her eyes. "So, what, you two know each other?"

"Ah, that is, Alice is -" Carlisle stops himself, then tries again. "Ella, this is Alice Platt, my…ah, my biological daughter."

The atmosphere in Red Lily Hall just got a _lot_ more awkward.

* * *

 **A/N: Characterizations are taking a sharp left as of now! You've been warned! That artistic license thing? _Doing that._**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	15. part 2: 4: naked raygun is a band

**four**

 **naked raygun is a band**

* * *

"So, you have a biological daughter. That's not a crime," she says into the phone a few days later. "Honestly, your random guilt for neglecting to mention you knocked up a banshee eighteen years ago is really misplaced. I mean, it's not _me_ who has the absentee-father coming back into my life."

" _I wasn't absent by choice,_ " Carlisle mutters, then sighs. " _It's the way of banshees. And it wasn't like I hadn't been around. As far as Alice knew, I was just….a friend of her mother's._ "

Ella snorts.

" _Not that kind of friend!_ "

"I still don't know why you're talking to me about this," she says bluntly.

" _I simply don't want you thinking that I am intentionally hiding things from you. I don't want there to be any more misunderstandings."_

"I get that. But Dad, really, I was only so pissed because you were hiding something about _my_ life. I don't care what you hide about yours."

" _Your irreverence is greatly appreciated_ ," he says dryly. " _Have you settled in?_ "

"Mostly," she answers. She then looks at the time and curses under her breath. "Hey, I've got to go - I'm going to be late to that thing I volunteered for-"

" _Are you sure you're ready?_ "

"It's a couple of redcaps. What's the worst that could happen?"

(Famous last words.)

Ella disconnects Carlisle's timely, very-loosely-obsessive call and looks to Raven perched on the wide windowsill of her room. The dorms in Red Lily Hall are all small singles, with shelves built into the walls carved with lilies and leaves, a narrow twin bunk bed over a writing desk, and - luckily for Ella and her flighty familiar - a set of double casement windows. She has covertly charmed the windows to recognize Raven's miniscule magic signature and open automatically at her approach, which is _nice_ because Ella is definitely not a fan of being woken up by a beak tapping irately on glass.

No magic unless it's an emergency? Ella holds the opinion that if she's woken up without the promise of coffee so early in the damn morning, there _will be_ an emergency.

"So, redcaps," she says conversationally to her familiar. "What do we know about them?"

"Have you not read about them?" Raven asks, preening her inky feathers.

Ella shrugs. "Well, I know that they're tiny, bloodthirsty goblins and that I should definitely avoid them under normal circumstances. I guess I'm wondering if - like, morally - it's okay to kill them."

Raven clicks her beak. "If you can catch them."

She shoots her familiar a dark look. But then again, would that alpha be asking for help from magic-users if they weren't having that issue in the first place?

Ella shrugs into a vintage, scuffed coal-black leather jacket detailed with fringe. She's kind of in love with the jacket, which was a gold-mine find in a thrift store; it evokes a sense of protection, an air of unpredictability that she thinks fits her very well. Paired with a simple white t-shirt, paint-splattered skinny jeans, and a pair of loose-laced Docs that have seen better days, Ella feels totally ready to help the local wolf pack exterminate some supernatural pests.

She eases out of her dorm after instructing Raven to meet her at Beacon Lake - only to run right into another girl also sneaking down the hallway. Well, a werewolf would be more accurate, as the girl's lifeline is a shimmering untamed amber, nearly the same shade as her eyes.

"Sorry, sorry!" says the werewolf, pushing a lock of chin-length hair out of her face; the neutral honey-brown is dyed with streaks of vivid magenta and violet, which clashes with the violent shade of orange on her lips and the cobalt lining her eyes.

Ella waves her off. "It's fine," she says, eying the tattered tank-top with deep rips on the side, which look suspiciously like claw-marks, with some amusement. _Naked Raygun_ the shirt proudly proclaims, along with a senseless image in bright neon.

The werewolf girl follows her gaze, then grins sharply. "It's a band. Punk, you know? They made _so many_ waves! Really, they're the reason why we had this collision," she says, brandishing her earbuds, where tinny music is blaring at a decibel that should probably hurt werewolf hearing. "I'm Bree, by the way."

"Ella."

"Oh, _hey!_ You're the one from the town meeting - the volunteer, right? Is that where you're going right now?"

"Yeah, actually."

"That's so great!" Bree exclaims with a wide-eyed look of relief. "See, I'm heading out there, too, only I was supposed to be there, like, a half-hour ago? But if we're both late, then my mom won't get mad, because I can just say I was being a Good Samaritan and showing you around. That's cool, right?"

Ella snorts. She zips up her jacket, heading down the hall. "I don't mind being your alibi."

"Excellent!"

* * *

 **A/N: My internet is being weird SO just in case I can't update tomorrow - ta-da!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	16. part 2: 5: capture the redcap

**five**

 **capture the redcap, not the flag**

* * *

Bree Masen is quite possibly the most unreserved person Ella has ever met - she is loud and excitable and wears all of her emotions right on her sleeve. Which is weird to Ella, who keeps everything except for anger close to the vest. Still, in the time it takes to walk from Viridity, through the woods in a half-circle to the south were Beacon Lake is, she and Bree strike up an animated conversation that hints at the beginning of friendship.

They're snickering at some story of Bree's involving her twin brother - Riley, who despite being in a family of hereditary werewolves, was born completely human - and a jar of peanut butter when they finally meet up with the gathering of people just off the shore of the lake.

"Now that we're all here," Elisabeth Masen, the alpha-wolf of the Masen pack, says pointedly with a flare of green-tinged alpha eyes. "Thank you everyone for volunteering. The redcap issue is swiftly getting out of hand. Hikers from Wright Point have been attacked when they take the pass through our town. Last week, someone lost a leg, which means that the redcaps are getting stronger. The goal is to capture and eliminate."

Something in Ella quiets at the cool-headed orders. She listens intently as Elisabeth addresses her pack, which seems to consist of immediate family, werewolves living in Charmstone, and a few werewolves attending Viridity who have allied with the Masen pack temporarily.

"Go in pairs," Elisabeth says at the end of a detailed explanation of the traveling patterns of the redcaps. When Bree sidles up to Ella, the alpha shakes her head and says, "Bree, you're with me. I think we need to have a conversation about punctuality."

Bree glowers petulantly, shuffling after her mother.

Ella, seeing that the only other magic-users - hedgewitches - have already paired off, sets off into the woods, fully prepared to go in alone with only Raven to keep her company overhead. She is stopped in place with a firm tug on her jacket; she looks down, spotting her leather sleeve grasped gently in the powerful jaws of a very familiar wolf.

Her lips twitch in a faint smile and she feels oddly relieved. "Hey, it's you," she says to the wolf. She doesn't even question why he's fully shifted - it seems like a personal preference and definitely not her business.

He releases her sleeve, verdant-edged amber eyes flashing bright gold as he trots off ahead of her, obviously following a scent that she isn't capable of catching. She follows along dutifully and when they stop at a clearing a few minutes later, she crouches down to dig in the earth.

"I've been thinking about it," she tells the wolf, who is pacing with his head cocked toward her, both listening for the redcaps and paying intent attention to her. "While your alpha was talking, it kind of dawned on me that the redcaps are milling about aimlessly and that's probably why you guys are having trouble catching them, right? They're scattered, like marbles or something. But what if the marbles are magnetized? They'd all come back to center, right?"

The wolf doesn't answer, of course, but he does stop pacing when Ella sketches a _calling_ rune directly into the ground and charges it with magic, which crackles through the air. She steps back, hiding herself behind a tree and waits for the wolf to do the same.

"It's like capture the flag, except _capture the redcap_."

The wolf chuffs, rolling his eyes.

And maybe she should be nervous. This is the first big show of magic that she's ever done and it's with _purpose_. But she's always had a ready reserve of confidence - some would say arrogance - with things she knows she's good at. And Ella is _good_ at magic. It's in her bones. It's easy as breathing. It all comes so naturally to her.

She's a _magician_.

It isn't long until the first redcap ventures into the clearing. Something Ella has learned about all creatures - human and supernatural alike - is that power is a very potent draw. And the way Ella charged that rune? It's like a freaking neon light saying, _yep, there's a lot of power here, free for the taking if you want it_.

She points her fore and middle fingers at the unsuspecting redcap, circling twice and making a jab in its direction that makes it topple over - stunned by her magic. The ring on her finger is warm, humming in tune with her magic as again and again, Ella stuns all the redcaps coming to the clearing. It's all going well - until it becomes obvious that it's all going a little _too_ well.

A sharp pinch on her calf - right through her jeans - draws Ella's attention away from the redcap she was trying to stun. She looks down, then makes a weird sound between a gasp and a yelp once she realizes that a _fucking redcap is biting her_. She springs out of her hiding spot, trying to shake the thing off, but its teeth are sharp and it's starting to _gnaw -_

But just as suddenly as the redcap had latched on, it is drawn off by a snap of powerful teeth and a low growl from the wolf. He shakes the redcap between his jaws, biting down viciously until the little goblin stops fighting. Then the wolf flings the dead redcap into the heap with all the others, muzzle dark with blood.

"Thanks," she tells him, wincing at the seeping wound on her leg. She quickly stuns the other redcap before it has a chance to get away. She looks up to Raven perched in a tree nearby. "Do you think that's all of them?"

"Yes," answers Elisabeth as she lopes smoothly into the clearing. "We've been tracking them ever since one of the hedgewitches sensed your spellwork. There are none left in the forest."

"Good," Ella says darkly.

Then, without hesitation, she draws up both hands parallel to the ground, murmurs a low incantation, and claps her hands together to summon bright-blue flames, the kind that are so hot they might as well be white. When the redcaps are nothing but ash, she draws the flames back until there is nothing but a neatly burned circle in the forest.

"Efficient," says the alpha.

Ella doesn't know if it's a compliment or not.

* * *

 **A/N: So, it's a bit longer than expected. This won't happen a lot!  
**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	17. part 2: 6: bite me

**six**

 **bite me**

* * *

"Can't believe that little fucker bit me," she grinds out between her teeth.

At this point, she's moved beyond being miffed and has settled very firmly in _embarrassed_ territory; she can't believe she forgot to watch her own back and let a _redcap_ get the better of her. She should have sensed it behind her and now she's spending a solid half-hour picking jeans out of a heinous wound back in the kitchen of Red Lily Hall.

At least the only witness is Bree, even if the werewolf is smiling mirthfully. "And _I_ can't believe that my brother willingly helped you. It's so not like him."

Ella looks up, dropping tweezers into the sink and reaching for antiseptic spray on the counter beside her. She raises her brows. "Your brother?"

"The wolf, dude," Bree explains. "That's my older brother, Anthony, the alpha-in-training. He's usually a solo act, if you know what I mean."

"Oh." Ella doesn't know what to say, so she doesn't say anything at all. Instead, she finishes cleaning out the bite from the redcap and then places her palm over the wound, muttering a healing spell that would seal her up for the night until she could get to the little infirmary at the Student Center.

"That's so _cool_ ," Bree breathes as she watches Ella's magic flare visibly, the magician's glass on her foci ring clearing as the pain of the redcap's bite clears from her system. "I mean, like, we heal too, but it's nothing like that. So _flashy_."

"It's not so impressive," Ella says as she hops off the counter. "Anything bigger than that or actually life threatening, I'd be shit out of luck. I only know basic spells and healing spells are harder than most to learn. Werewolves, though…"

Bree's eyes flash gold. "Yeah, given enough time to heal, we're pretty indestructible. Except for decapitation."

"Not many people come back from decapitation, anyway. Don't beat yourself up about it."

"Oh, I'll always be bitter," Bree grins. Then, she becomes oddly serious. "You'll be okay, though, right?"

Ella shrugs, testing her weight on her leg. "I've had worse."

The answer is too honest and she can see that Bree is about to ask what warrants _worse_ than a redcap bite - which by all means is extensively painful, because they have dozens of tiny teeth lined with a mildly corrosive acid - but that is when Alice strides into the kitchen. For someone so small, she certainly moves with purpose.

Alice pauses, pale green eyes taking in the freshly broken-in first aid kit and the bloodied mess of Ella's jeans. She tilts her head to the side. "Hm," she says blankly. She opens the communal refrigerator, takes out a Greek blueberry yogurt, fetches a spoon, and then makes to leave. Over her shoulder, she sing-songs, "Don't forget to use bleach to clean your blood off the counter. Thanks!"

Bree turns to Ella with round eyes. " _Wow_. She's so _frosty_ to you. Piss in her gluten-free Cheerios, or something?"

"She can _bite me_ ," Ella grumbles before casting a cleaning spell on the entire kitchen - just to be defiant of Alice's "no magic" rule for the dorm.

"The redcap already did that."

Ella snorts in dark amusement.

* * *

 **A/N: I've decided I'm abandoning the idea of a fic entirely of drabbles, as it has come to my attention that I am rather horrible at the whole limiting-word-count _thing_. It has also come to my attention that these are more vingettes. Additionally, it has again come to my attention that it doesn't really matter what length these chapters are or what best to call them, so there's that.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	18. part 2: 7: something missing

**seven**

 **something missing**

* * *

For some reason, she expects to hear a wolf howling in the night. Anticipates it, even. But there is no howl on this night and she is strangely disappointed as she stares up at the ceiling of her dorm, leg still tingling from her healing spell.

 _Anthony Masen_. The wolf who comforted her in the forest all those months ago has a name.

She wonders what he looks like in human form - wonders why he'd remained a wolf while they were dealing with the redcaps. Wonders why he was howling all those times and why she only started to hear that howling after she sobbed brokenly in front of him. Wonders if it even matters, or if she's making something big out of something that isn't anything at all.

She rolls over, unable to sleep, and stares at the moon for a very long time.

* * *

 **A/N: A double update because I don't even know why.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	19. part 2: 8: settling in

**eight**

 **settling in**

* * *

Ella has never been the studious sort. Not stupid or anything, just not particularly motivated to learn about things that she knows would never be applicable in everyday life. Learning magic from Carlisle was a different story - learning magic is useful and it comes easy to Ella.

College is different.

Her first few days of classes are kind of overwhelming - mostly because the whole keeping-a-schedule thing and being on time is _new_. She's gone from setting her own day to conforming to being up and in places at specific times. Pretty different from what she's used to.

All the people are different, too.

For the most part, students at Viridity keep to humanoid forms. Most supernatural creatures have them - like werewolves and shapeshifters - or are otherwise in possession of only one form that looks basically human - banshees and magic-users and the like. But there are some creatures of different ilk that kind of have dead giveaways that they aren't exactly human and they don't seem to feel a need to _pretend_ to be human unless they're in the Charmstone proper. Ghouls have a hard time of it, usually being ashen and red-eyed; descendants of faeries have an inner-glow like Tinkerbell, as well as having two sizes of being and _wings_ ; and wendigos get awfully grumpy when they miss a meal. It's not at all unusual to walk across a courtyard and happen upon a territorial dispute with a goblin and a troll. And that's not even to talk about the students who fully embrace the nature of their creature, like the pair of witches in her English Comp class who have taken to _cackling_.

Ella loves it. Honestly _loves_ it. She didn't know she was capable of loving anything - except for Carlisle.

Even though she's packed her schedule with prerequisites and has no time to take an art class, she still ends up filling an entire sketchbook with images of the Virdity campus and her peers.

She's an easy adapter and quickly gets into the swing of things. Class and doing her own laundry and homework and shifts at the Student Center - it all becomes the norm and before Ella realizes it, a full month has passed since the first week of classes. She has a steady friend in Bree and more casual acquaintances than she thought possible.

Ella is - happy. Thriving.

(She should have known it wouldn't last.)

* * *

 **A/N: You guys - I love you guys the way Sloth Loves Chunk™.**

 **As always, be brutally honest, I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	20. part 2: interlude

**interlude**

* * *

"It's lovely spending time with you," Carlisle Cullen says as the car idles in front of Red Lily Hall. He's dropping Alice off after the dinner they shared, something that has become a weekly thing as they got to know each other in this new context.

Because it's not like Carlisle hasn't been around. Alice has known him her whole life - just as one of her mother's friends who was always intensely interested in the goings-on of Alice's days, her friends, her interests. He always showed up with a present on her birthday and on Christmas and when she was very young on Valentine's Day. She understands why - now - but she can't honestly say that she's not a bit embittered by the whole thing.

This is not the way it's _supposed_ to work.

Banshees are meant to pick a man with desirable qualities and then raise the offspring of the coupling with the father none the wiser. The men are never supposed to know that they have a child and they certainly aren't supposed to be around the child in any capacity. Her mother has spit on thousands of years worth of tradition and now Alice is in this awkward situation, spending time with a man she has known all of her life - a man who is her father and who wants to know her as a daughter. A man who is as in love with her mother as her mother is in love with him.

And it's worse - because Alice is _fond_ of Carlisle. She's always liked him. In a secret part of her mind, far and buried down deep, she had always longed for Carlisle to fill that aching void in her heart, the one that her mother would never be able to touch. And here is the truth and the opportunity and Alice doesn't know what to _do_ with it.

So she forces a bright smile, leans over the console to kiss her father's cheek - a familiar shape to his cheekbones that she sees in the mirror - and makes plans to meet again for dinner next week. They'll celebrate mid-terms, he says, and she agrees.

And then she stands in front of Red Lily Hall while he drives away in that vintage white VW bug and she thinks, _There goes my father, a druid and a kind man_.

She's overwhelmed and wishes that she was not so confused.

It's just her luck that once inside the dorm, she ends up running into _that girl_ in the kitchen. Ella Cullen, the adoptive daughter of her father, and a girl who doesn't seem to grasp just how fortunate she is to know Carlisle. If Alice is jealous - and she _isn't_ \- then she thinks it would be totally justified. She appreciates Carlisle; Ella does not. That much is clear.

Alice straightens her shoulders. "It's almost curfew," she says, compelled by a dark twisting thing in the back of her mind - the whispers that all banshees hear, the voices of her ancestors long-past, the sound that always increases to the point of distraction any time she is near Ella.

"I know. Just getting some water, or is that not allowed?"

Alice bites the inside of her cheek at the way Ella regards her - like Alice is so insignificant that she can't even be bothered to acknowledge her unless she really has to, which chafes in ways and for reasons that Alice doesn't understand. She's just - she's _irritated_ by everything about Ella, from that bronze-gold complexion to the way she doesn't care how she dresses and especially the eerie pale grey-green-blue of her eyes standing in such stark contrast with the rest of her coloring.

Eyes that - when Alice looks directly at them - make the whispers ghosting along her ears positively _screech_.

She tries not to look to closely - ever.

Alice turns on her heel without a word, marching directly up to her room and closing the door. She leans against the wood, head tilted back, and listens to the whispers:

 _Fey_ , they say.

Or at least she thinks that's what they say. She's only heard the whispers since she turned 18, even though she'd been having indistinct premonitions for ages before then. The whispers, though, learning how to _listen_ is much harder than dreams that foretell events and deaths. Much more difficult.

 _Fey_ , they say. But the sound wisps off at the end, the first syllable fizzing, long and drawn out.

 _Feeehhhh…._

She shakes her head. She lights a candle, lavender to sooth her nerves. Moves over to sit at her desk with a pen hovering over an open-face white journal the size of her palm. Closes her eyes and _listens_.

 _Fehhhhh. Fey. Feeey._

Her hand moves automatically, pen scratching over paper as she easily falls into a trance - carried away from her conscious mind by the whispers and led close to the murky aether, to the void that all banshees know. When she stops writing, she is shaking and sweating and pale. The candle is no longer lit. And the paper before her is filled from edge to edge.

Tiny, cramped words, all coalescing into the shape of a face she knows - into Ella's sharp-eyed stare and delicate, up-turned features. The same three words, over and over and over and over again.

 _Fay is fey. Fay is fey. Fay is fey_.

Alice drops the pen, weary and wrung-out as the whispers fade. She shivers, staring at her automatic writing with a sense of detachment - and unmitigated dread.

Is she reading too much into this?

Perhaps.

But she is a banshee and all banshee know what _fey_ is - know what all the different types of fey there are. Banshees are fey, touched by the other world and privy to the machinations of death. _Alice_ is fey, by birth and by creed. Plenty of other creatures are fey, too, in the way of being of another time and place, in the way of being magic, in the way of not belonging with humans. Fey can mean many, many things.

Ella is fey, too. Just not the same kind of fey as Alice.

 _Fay is fey_.

She doesn't know what _Fay_ means in this context - somehow it relates to Ella - but she does understand what _fey_ means, what the whispers have been telling her.

Ella is the _other_ kind of fey - she is fated to die.

* * *

 **A/N: Aside from the big one here, there are _so many tiny clues_ in this chapter. So many. I'm cackling. **

**Anyway, this is Alice! I like writing her character, especially characterized like this.**

 **I also like closing the arcs of this story with POV from different characters, so this is officially the end of Part Two. Worry not, for there are _lots_ of arcs in this, some of them long, some of them short, and we're just barely touching the iceberg. **

**Which is why I'm *trying* to keep the chapters brief and meaningful, because when I _do_ eventually expand this thing - well. You can imagine what happens to my "expansions" if you read derivation.  
**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	21. part 3:1: chubby hubby

**SUPERNORMAL: PART THREE**

* * *

 **one**

 **chubby hubby**

* * *

In retrospect, it all starts because some guy is exactly one dollar and twenty-three cents short of buying a pint of Chubby Hubby and his pleading is so _incredibly_ pathetic that even _Ella_ is moved.

His lower lip is pushed out and eyes downcast as he hurriedly shuffles through the pockets of his jeans, casting harried glances over his shoulder at the only other person in the Student Center who bothered to come out so late. The other guy isn't even near the register and judging by the way he's chortling at the ironic-not-ironic postcards featuring cats in weirdly specific settings, Ella is almost certain that he's stoned.

Her would-be customer doesn't seem to notice. He's too preoccupied searching for money that won't appear out of thin air no matter how many times he crams his fingers into the crannies of his wallet. His startlingly clear eyes - lapis lazuli - begin to water as he mutters, "Oh, my God, _please_. I can't even have _this_? Is this - this is punishment, isn't it? Because I had _thoughts_ about my best friend and the Big Guy Upstairs is like, _uh, no_. Right?"

It takes her a moment to realize that he's talking to her. She eyes him warily. He looks familiar and his lifeline has that tip-of-the-tongue buzz that she's come to associate with potentials - with humans who can and probably will become _more_ than human.

 _Peter_ , she thinks after a moment, finally placing the gentle angles of his face and the unkempt mop of chestnut hair. His eyes _pop_ against the caramel tone of his complexion.

Peter is in some of the same prerequisite classes as her, but she never pegged him for _precariously balancing on the edge of mentally unhinged_. A little hyperactive, maybe. Definitely familiar with pop culture. And having the potential to be something other than human - but not a hop, skip, and jump away from a mental breakdown. But here he is, in some sort of ice cream crisis, and looking to her for answers.

Ella shrugs.

"I think I'm gay," he blurts artlessly. Then he claps his hand over his mouth in alarm. " _Oh God, I didn't mean to say that,_ " he mumbles behind his palm.

Ella looks at the pint of ice cream rolling across the counter. "So, this is sexual identity crisis ice cream?"

Peter nods.

She sighs; she's _so_ not qualified to deal with this. "Consider it on the house, then," she says, nudging the ice cream toward him. "Believe me, the manager is too involved with his dissertation to even bother taking inventory. The Ben & Jerry's won't be missed."

Peter snatches up the ice cream, holding it to his chest with wide, slightly watery eyes. "I think I'm in love."

"Aren't you supposed to be gay?"

"Well, I don't know _for sure_ , yet!"

She rolls her eyes. "Take your ice cream and go away."

He does, but it is by far not the last time she hears from Peter Martin.

* * *

 **A/N: To the reviewer wondering, no I do _not_ mean _supernatural_. I mean _supernormal_. It's a word.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	22. part 3: 2: denial under a microscope

**two**

 **denial under a microscope**

* * *

It's the weekend and Ella has taken it upon herself to make use of the on-campus art classrooms, which are a series of open-floored, wide-windowed studios practically swamped in Black's magical aura. The building is one of the rare squat after-thoughts, settled toward the rear of Viridity and very clearly an addition that had come sometime in the 1900's if she's looking at the architecture right.

Even though she doesn't have classes here yet, she's already decided that she likes _her_ studio across town, the one in Carlisle's garage. The privacy is a huge bonus, for one. But she's made the conscious decision to make herself scarce this weekend; as far as she knows, Alice will be spending some quality time with Carlisle and his books and Ella has _no intention_ of getting herself intimately acquainted with that amount of awkward.

Plus - Alice doesn't like her and Ella doesn't want to screw up Carlisle's chances of having a relationship (however fucked up) with his real daughter.

Hence, exploring Virdity's art studios. There's one for each medium and Ella has found herself ensconced with oil and acrylic paints as the sun paints the sky in burnt ocher and warm violets. There's some noise down the hall from the photography studio; some angsty, emo music seeping from beneath the black-room door. It's mid-October now, a week before mid-terms, two weeks before Halloween, a celebration that promises to be _very interesting_ in this particular town. Cold weather has officially settled in for a long stay in upstate New York, with the leaves finally giving up the good fight and crumpling in crunches of maroon and goldenrod onto the courtyards outside.

Ella has never seen a season outside of the city. She's a little bewildered by how complete the landscape is transformed.

Wonders if she should be celebrating something that isn't, like, _commercially_ Halloween. Samhain, maybe? She's a magician - does she even qualify to celebrate pagan rituals? Or does her in-born magical ability mean that she's _super_ connected to the thinning of the veils between life and after-life? She should read up on it. After she's done studying for Algebra II, which is solidly kicking her ass.

It's no wonder that the canvas beneath her brush swiftly becomes a mass of huddled confusion - a messy, dank swirling of colors that feels vaguely like uncertainty. Or indigestion. Her elation at settling into her new life has begun to churn deep in her stomach. She's been putting this _off_ feeling as something related to the upcoming mid-term exams, but as she looks at this artless exploration of her feelings before her, she can't help but feel like the cause is _something else_.

She just doesn't know _what_.

Ella reaches for the paint scraper, intent on starting again with a clear vision in mind - something remnescent of impressionist painters and the auspicious weather outside. Again and again, she presses the thin edge of the metal scraper to the canvas, clearing away clumps of paint and leaving a murky stain on the canvas. The stain from the paint is brown-ish, a good enough base for what she now has in mind.

Ella sets to work, clean brushes and fresh paint and a steady white-noise hum in the back of her mind that lets her thoughts fall away - almost completely. Leaves and twisting vines and filled-up negative space. She steps away from the canvas once it's almost finished, rifling through the piles of straight-up _random crap_ on the long tables beneath the windows, searching for another medium to add while the paint is drying - wood, maybe, to press along the spines of the leaves she has painted -

"Ah, I see you're painting something other than rage."

Ella turns, raising her brow at Black as he ambles into the room. He's frowning deeply at her canvas, head cocked to the side so that the feathers in his hair brush over his shoulder. She abandons her search and goes to stand shoulder-to-mid-bicep with her almost-Professor.

"I'm sensing a _but_ coming up," she says.

He nods gravely. " _But_ unfortunately, boredom isn't an emotion anyone wants to see on canvas."

Her temper flares, sudden and brisk, and so does her magic, rattling against the easel, the loose odds and ends in the room as she fumes. Is _nothing_ good enough for this guy? She doesn't care if he's a shaman or that he can skin-walk or that if he wanted, he could push her right into an astral form for a spirit-journey - she's starting to get _really_ annoyed.

(Later, she'll realize that he pushes her buttons on purpose. It's what good teachers do - and Black is nothing if not an _excellent_ teacher.)

"You have some pretty impossible standards."

"Do I?" he questions lightly with a shrug of his shoulders. His black eyes are probing, probably seeing more truth than Ella would really like, as if she's a slate under a microscope, and then he says, "Get out of here. Go off campus. Find some inspiration. But don't come back here until you can paint something that makes me feel what you feel. Honesty, Ella."

"This _is_ honest," she argues, flinging her hand at the canvas. But even as she does, she knows he's right. Her first try was unsettled confusion; her second try is what she _thinks_ art should be as she tries to get over this anxious twist along her spine.

Black steps away, dismissive as he says over his shoulder, "Is it honest or are you hiding from what you really feel?"

She stands in place for a long while after he leaves, glaring at nothing with the sort of disgruntlement that she mastered as a young teenager. Angry that she's angry. Mad at her temper, at her irreverent nature. Pissed that she doesn't know what she's feeling - only that she's feeling it.

She stays that way, simmering and stewing with her own ire, until it she has a grip on herself. Then, Ella takes the canvas off the easel and places it face-down on one of the tables in the studio. Leaves it there, but takes the wrong-footed disparity creeping along her conscious with her as she goes.

Her magic skitters in her veins, reacting to what she cannot place, what she cannot name.

* * *

 **A/N: So, I've had a teacher like this before and my hand to God, he was the best teacher I ever had. Taught me more about life than how to sketch a vase, which is saying something because I do a _really_ nice still-life rendering. Art teachers are kind of like that, I think.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	23. part 3: 3: comfort trap

**TRIGGER WARNING: READ WITH CAUTION.**

* * *

 **three**

 **comfort trap**

* * *

Emotions are hard.

She's _comfortable_ not putting too fine a point on them for as long as possible - but with magic, with the way her magic works, with how she's so _in-tune_ with everything and everyone in the world, she can't really do that anymore. And it's hard to feel like it's not a trap of some sort, like she's not being tricked into introspection, or something.

But she doesn't have the words - doesn't know how to tell anyone - can't muster the courage to communicate why it is that she doesn't _trust_ in her environment once it starts to feel comfortable. Isn't quite able to articulate why it is that routines and idle hands put her on edge.

Won't say why _she's_ better off when she has a hard-line focus on something - on anything.

Because then she's not thinking - about her life, about herself, about her damnable emotions.

(Her mother, dead because of her; her father, unknown; herself, unwanted.)

(The pale, silvery scars lining her most tender, hidden places; thin reminders on the side of her rib, the back of her knee, the dip of her hip, the thin underside of her wrists; evidence of release sought and never found. Evidence of her weakness.)

Because then she's not waking up in a cold sweat, mind turning over horrible memories like the worst slideshow in the world.

(Hands on her, bruising and grasping; pain, like a twisting edge caught under her ribs as she takes hit after hit; terror when she and her foster sister have to flee _that house_ in the dead of night and their skin is burning from unkind touches and their clothes are ripped.)

Because her nightmares leave a bubble of panic hot behind her lungs and some days she can ignore them and some nights are worse than others and she never, ever talks about it.

(She can't forget the blood, doesn't want to misplace the memory of that smooth burn as she slices into her own skin. She _felt_ something - something that wasn't beyond her control - and it's not good, of course it's not good and she knows that, but she doesn't want to forget it, either.)

Because then she doesn't have to own up to the anxiety that comes hand-in-hand with being _comfortable_.

(And the sheer, terrible relief that Ella didn't get the worst of it that time - that she came out intact in a way her foster sister would never be. But she still won't forget that particular fear. No.)

Because as far as Ella knows, becoming comfortable is just as good as becoming dead.

* * *

 **A/N: Attempted sexual assault of a minor and history of self-harm - both are not out of the realm for foster children. In fact, foster children are at greater risk of sexual abuse, self-harm, suicide, substance abuse, and developing mental disorders in adolescence-early adulthood regardless of ethnicity or gender. I've done the research; I've taken the classes; and I wanted a character to represent and bring awareness of these facts.**

 **That said, our main character here is dealing with a lot more than just magic. By now, it might have become obvious that she has mood swings that tend toward anger, that she sometimes does things impulsively, and that she has some particular feelings about betrayal of trust. All intentional characterizations to illustrate that Ella _is_ suffering a - currently - undiagnosed mental disorder.  
**

 **So, life is a journey and along with the goings-on of Charmstone and her magic and the villains, Ella will also be dealing with her own mental health.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	24. part 3: 4: less talk, more rock

**four**

 **less talk, more rock**

* * *

Bree has effectively cleared most residents from Red Lily Hall with the horrendous, unapologetic volume of her music, which filters all the way down to the common areas on the first floor and to the attic lounge upstairs. All five levels of the house completely free of girls the weekend before mid-terms.

With the notable exception of Ella, of course, who was wise enough to _place silencing_ runes in hunter green nail polish onto her walls the moment it became obvious that the walls are thin in the dorm building. Never mind that the original reason was to protect her privacy just in case her occasional nightmares got a little too loud. The point is that now she doesn't have to flee from her room because Bree's version of mid-term studying involves listening to _Billy Idol_ at a decibel that would make any other werewolf wince.

In spite of herself, she's a bit impressed that Bree traipses downstairs only moments after Ella is adding chicken to the stir-fry she's making, which is pretty much the only meal she can passably cook. Bree's nose is tilted appreciatively in the air as she drapes herself across the kitchen table. "I'm so _hungry_ ," she groans and to Ella's amusement, she notices that Bree is marked up with evidence of neon-bright highlighters.

"If I let you have some of this, what do I get in exchange?" Ella asks as she pulls out two bowls.

"My eternal devotion," Bree says promptly. Then she sits up, frowning at the relative silence of the house, except for the music still blasting from upstairs. "Where is everyone?"

"Hiding in the library, probably."

"Why?" Bree frowns.

Ella stares at her, momentarily stunned at Bree's capacity to be oblivious. Then, shaking her head, she dishes up her food, locates a fork, and jumps onto the counter to sit on her rear with the cabinets supporting her back. Only Alice has ever been seen using the dining table, and so it's become an unspoken house rule to steer-clear of the little nook off the side of the kitchen. Bree follows suit quickly enough, chattering easily between big bites of food, happy enough that Ella nods and hums at the right points, even if she isn't contributing to the conversation. Bree is easy like that.

"Oh yeah!" Bree says suddenly, cutting herself off mid-sentence, cheeks bulging and a noodle stuck to her lip. She chews with some speed, swallowing hastily. Bree grins widely. "Forgot to mention this earlier - and I totally meant to, I swear - but me and some friends were planning on celebrating the end of mid-terms on Friday. Like, a _hurrah, we survived the scary-scary tests_ , you know? Anyway, we're planning on meeting up at Sam's Diner - you know the one, right, in the town square? - and you're absolutely welcome to join."

Ella pushes hair off her face, nose wrinkling in thought. "I don't know…"

The prospect of meeting people who have the energy level to sustain a friendship with Bree is daunting. Ella would - honestly - rather not.

Bree huffs. "Oh, come on. All you do is brood with your paint fumes and study and work. I know for a fact you've been avoiding going home - don't think that I haven't missed that _very interesting_ drama brewing with our Resident Banshee - and your room is, like, always suspiciously silent. You never have any fun."

Ella glares.

"Don't make me beg," Bree says. But when Ella is still mildly reluctant, Bree shifts as if to drop down to her knees and it makes Ella uncomfortable enough that she agrees to the plans. Smoothly, Bree smiles brightly as she stands, victory gleaming in her cognac eyes. "Great! I can't wait to introduce you to my brother!"

And suddenly - inexplicably - Ella no longer feels like sulking about being persuaded into a social outing.

* * *

 **A/N: Bree the social butterfly. Er, social werewolf.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	25. part 3: 5: ella not-so-enchanted

**five**

 **ella not-so-enchanted**

* * *

She is somewhat alarmed to realize that Peter now thinks they are _friends_.

"Ella!" he calls the _moment_ he spots her.

She suppresses a sigh and does not slow her pace. He'll catch up eventually.

Peter seems to have an uncanny knack for finding her at the exact moment she is not explicitly busy doing something else. For example, he just so happens to be in the courtyard between the end of her class and her shift at the Student Center; he simply appears right as she's leaving the library; and now, he's munching on Funyuns as he trots across the greenway separating the English and Science buildings.

If she didn't know any better, she would think Peter had some kind of magical low-jack on her. As it is, he's an untapped potential, possesses only a grain of magic, and currently has fake-onion dust on his upper lip. She honestly doesn't think he's _capable_ of stalking anyone.

Intentionally, that is. Because he's _unintentionally_ stalking her very, very well.

"So, where are we going?" Peter asks once they have left the safety of the campus gates. His face is a bit flushed from the cool October air nipping at his skin; he's only wearing a thin navy hoodie, a thin _Rick & Morty_ t-shirt, and jeans.

" _We_ aren't going anywhere," she says firmly. " _I_ am going to a bookstore."

"Oh, yeah? I'll come, too," Peter smiles, neatly side-stepping her desire to exclude him from this outing. "I've been meaning to go into town anyway. I know you work at the Student Center, but to be perfectly honest, the store is lacking in options and I need my Pop Tart fix."

"We sell Pop Tarts," she tells him in spite of herself. "Literally can't miss them, they're pretty much the only thing anyone buys. That and Ramen. Both have their own shelves."

"Not S'mores ones and those are the best. Accept this uncontested fact."

Ella does a fairly good impression of Carlisle's long-suffering sigh, casting her eyes heaven-ward. "You're exhausting."

"I hear that a lot, actually."

Somehow, Ella isn't exactly surprised.

Being without a car in Charmstone is no particular hardship; everything worth doing is in walking distance, even from the Viridity campus. It's not like anyone has ever gotten _lost_ in Charmstone, if such a thing is possible, that is. Most of the town blooms around the town square, which boasts an intricate assortment of old-fashioned light posts, wrought-iron benches, and three small garden sections. Admittedly, it had taken Ella a while to figure out that the gardens themselves formed a triskelion, which supported the main wards etched into the cobble-stone foundation beneath the benches and which protected the town from human suspicion. She only put it together after seeing a much stronger assortment in the three main courtyards inside the Viridity gates, right where those ley lines converged.

Every time she passes the wards in Charmstone, though, she shivers. There is _something wrong_ with them that she can't quite place. Imperfection, maybe. The leys have grown weak in the town proper, which probably isn't the best thing that could happen.

But surely something _that_ major is on the radar of the magic-users in town, right? Someone has to be working on it. In all likelihood, it's probably already on the ledger to be discussed at the next town meeting. Ella pushes it out of her mind and tunes back into Peter's ongoing diatribe against the unfairness of mid-term testing, which according to him, is some form of inhumane psychological torture.

She eyes his warily. "You do realize that finals are going to be worse, right?"

Instantly, his face falls. He had apparently overlooked that fact in his quest to be victimized by a set of tests that weren't as hard as Ella thought they might be. She's almost confident that she made it through Algebra II bearing no scars, though the same might not be said for her Introductory to Art History course. She'd never been the best at memorizing dates.

Her sense of direction, however, has always been spot-on. Peter follows her diligently as she paces down the side of the storefronts directly facing town square - including Sam's Diner, where she is due to meet with Bree in about an hour - and then swings into a narrow side-street that is already cast in sundown shadow. For such a small town, Charmstone does actually boast a few specialty stores, and of the two bookstores in town, the one she has in mind is definitely the less commercial.

Which is fine because Ella isn't looking for just any old book. She's looking for a book about herself - about magicians. Because for all that Carlisle's bibliophile ways have led to an extraordinarily large collection of books - which might eventually turn into a revolution against him if the books ever become sentient and affronted by his not-so-organized-organizational-system - he doesn't seem to have much literature on magicians.

Really, just the one book. And in that one book, just a short paragraph. And it's not even a _good_ paragraph, as it basically says nothing of import except for this:

 _Magicians are rare - those sorcerers and sorceresses with blood-claim to The Trio - who have been bound and unbound for a millennia and who are always in opposition to the others, as was the way for The Trio and as will be the way for all magicians hence._

Which, _okay_. Ever since she read that, it's been ruminating in the back of her mind - months of questions built up and no answers. In her free time, she'd taken to combing through the Viridity libraries, which are even more extensive than Carlisle's. But she's been coming up blank. There is no mention of The Trio, no explicit talk of magicians, no hint as to what it meant to be bound or unbound. No answers.

Honestly, going to Bokhandel is a last-ditch effort.

"Whoa," Peter breathes behind her as they catch the first glimpse of the bookstore.

It's a dark place on the outside, cloistered all on it's lonesome near an alley-way on the far side of the back street. The sign out front is dilapidated, broken clean in half but still hanging over the door, one side lower than the other. And the lone window display is dirty, stacked high with all kinds of junk and musty old books. Ella forges onward, Peter at her side, but the inside of the bookstore isn't much better. It smells dank, the air ripe with dust and carbon dioxide, and the swaying lights on the ceiling are dim, lending very little illumination to the blue-blackness covering every inch of the place.

Peter launches into a series of harried sneezes. And Ella suppresses a shiver, her magic standing to attention, not unlike the way her hair raises on her arms, the back of her neck.

"Hello?" she calls out, edging around the sharp corner of a shelf. "Is anyone here?"

Peter sneezes again.

Ella sighs, pushing a hand through her hair. She squints in the dim lighting, trying to read the sideways print on the spines of the few books that are on the shelves - far less books than what should be in a bookstore, actually. She shakes her head, ready to backtrack in defeat -

"You've come," says a shallow voice, raspy at the edge and low, the exact kind of voice someone possesses once they've spent a lifetime smoking.

Ella spins around on her heel, magic snapping into focus.

It's an old woman of papery, sagging skin and crinkly grey hair, neither of which make her hooked nose seem any less repugnant. Her eyes are equally as disturbing, a sort of icky, sickly pale yellow-green, which compliments the spider-web-thin green tinge of her lifeline. Ella looks at the old woman and immediately feels nauseous; the old woman is _something_ , alright, and it's nothing _good_.

Still, she pulls her shoulders back, unwittingly bumping into Peter, who is wiping at his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie. "Are you the owner?"

"This is my shop," answers the old woman.

Ella eyes her surroundings. "Are you…closed?"

"Oh, no, child. Never closed, always open, especially for you."

"Right," Ella says flatly. So effing creepy.

"Did you need help finding something? Hmm?"

The denial rises on her tongue quicker than the strike of a scorpion. "No, there's nothing for me here. We're leaving now. Sorry to disturb you."

Ella curls her fingers around Peter's wrist, forcibly removing both of them from the bookstore and hightailing it toward the town square. Peter's shoes scuffle against the sidewalk as he tries to keep his balance with her long strides, but Ella doesn't pause for his comfort. She can't. She has to get _away_ from that place - that wrong, itchy, seasickness place.

"Jesus, what was that?" Peter asks when she lets them stop.

Ella shakes her head, pushing down the urge to vomit. Her minds eye flashes that sickly yellow-green gaze of the old woman over and over - until it becomes obvious what she and Peter had just walked away from.

"That, Peter, was a hag."

"Like, for real?"

Ella casts a lingering glance back to the bookstore, instantly catching that awful yellow-green gaze behind the dirty window. She clenches her jaw and turns away. "Don't go back there," she tells Peter.

He nods, wide-eyed and sniffling from allergies.

(If only it were that easy.)

* * *

 **A/N: I'm weaving all the sub-plots through to the main plot, but each arc of this story has it's own sub-plot. So I guess I'm layering sub-sub-plots into the main plot? Anyway, there's a lot going on. We're juggling here, people. Welcome to the circus.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	26. part 3: 6: join the club

**six**

 **join the club**

* * *

As it turns out, the brother that Bree wants her to meet is _not_ Anthony Masen.

It's her twin, Riley Masen, the human born to a family full of werewolves - taking after Elisabeth Masen's human husband, one Edward Anthony O'Brien, Sr. And isn't that a fun little fact to learn? That the husband has taken the wife's name, because Elisabeth is the alpha and has to pass the family name - and the power of the pack - down along the bloodline. It has to remain unbroken.

Ella finds it very refreshing - very feminist. She digs the matriarchal power that apparently runs rampant in Charmstone. The rest of the world should take note.

(And it's easier being pleased about learning random facts about werewolves than it is to think about what the _hell_ just happened in that bookstore and why her magic has yet to settle completely, like it's just waiting to be used. She keeps her hands tucked away for fear of accidental magic.)

If he seems bothered that he's the only human in a family of werewolves, Riley doesn't seem to mind. He's _pretty_ for a boy, all narrow-jaw and high cheekbones, with a naturally pouty mouth and straight brows over eyes the exact shade of whiskey over ice. Riley wears his hair in loose waves, the warm honeyed color similar to what Bree's must look like if she lets the rainbow dye wash out. Riley sits in the center of a booth in the back of Sam's Diner, a jean jacket and teal-ombre scarf around his neck, lazily flipping through a Playbill on _Hamilton_.

And he is entirely oblivious to the way Peter looks at him.

Which - yeah. That explains the whole sexual-identity-crisis-ice-cream thing.

Peter has, like, _no chill_ at all when confronted with Riley. Although, it's not like it's _that_ dissimilar to how Peter normally behaves. As usual, he talks too fast, gestures too wide, and reacts to everything around him in a split-second. Only with Riley, there's a flustered edge to his mannerisms, just a faint trace of pink at his ears when Riley deigns to pay direct attention to him.

Ella presses her lips together, suppressing a smile.

It's an interesting group that she's been inducted into - the twins and Peter and also another human named Jasper. They'd all gone to Charmstone High, she's told, and are all _in the know_ , which she thinks is remarkable. Jasper pings as 100% human but Peter doesn't, and she has to wonder if anyone has told him about the spark of potential embedded in his soul. Probably not. It's so faint, nobody else except for Ella might be able to sense it.

Still, as might be imagined, any gathering containing both Bree and Peter is marginally exhausting. They have a tendency to speak over each other and sometimes not even about the same topics. Ella doesn't try to keep up, instead turning her attention to Jasper, who positively reeks of weed. He looks vaguely familiar, with limpid grey eyes and shaggy blond hair, and she places him as the guy who loiters at the Student Center late at night. It's a small town; not such a surprise. It is a little surprising how completely baked he is, though, even as he methodically and quietly plows through a platter of deep-fried foods, utterly unbothered by his surroundings.

At some point in the night, once they have all been served foods from the djinn-touched cook, Peter proudly proclaims, "I'll have you _know_ that I am a Level 150 Wizard, Bree, and your Rogue Night Elf can kick my sparkly, magical _ass_ if you think you could possible stand up to my excellence!"

Bree gasps, as if affronted, and flicks the paper wrapper of her straw at Peter's nose. "I'd take you down so quick in a melee, your pointed-hat head would spin, you utter plebian!"

" _You're_ the plebe, scrub! I don't even need to wade into a melee because _, hello_ , magic!"

Privately, Ella thinks Peter has a pretty good point. Her singular experience with the redcaps not withstanding, it's pretty obvious that magic-users have the advantage of long-range abilities that other supernaturals can't possibly compete with. Or at least she thinks. Even in a hypothetical scenario - or whatever computer game Peter and Bree are arguing over - magic does appear to have the upper hand. For someone like Ella, who conceivably has a large wellspring of magical energy to tap into, it's a heady thought.

 _She could be untouchable_.

Beside her, Riley heaves a great sigh, places his Playbill face-down on the table and mutters, "You're both making me wish I was drinking battery acid instead of iced tea."

Bree sneers, forgetting her argument with Peter at the drop of a hat and turning her attention to her fraternal twin. "Gosh, would you do us all that favor?"

"I could be persuaded," Riley retorts, sighing dramatically with a winsome expression that quickly morphs into one of dark humor. "You just have to shut up for five seconds so I can _think_."

"Or I could just go ask Sam to clean out his radiator."

Peter flaps his hands. "Whoa, okay, come on. We're not that bad."

Riley raises a brow, adjusting his scarf. "You're like fungus."

Peter beams. "So you admit it, then. I'm growing on you!"

Riley falters and in that space of time, Jasper lets out a hoot of laughter that quickly dissolves into chortles. He clutches at his ribs, gasping for breath, and Ella finds herself laughing, too. She's filled with mirth by these people.

And even if the night hasn't gone the way it should have - the bookstore, the wrong brother, the pinching edge of unmentionable warning in the back of her mind - she finds herself less cantankerous than before.

* * *

 **A/N: Okay, I know, I know - you all were expecting a different brother and yes, I am very, very mean for misleading everyone. That said, the character you've been waiting for is close (read: in _part 3: 8_ ). PLEASE no pitchforks; the author is not a fast runner and has no desire to be impaled.**

 **I confess, I do not game. However, my brother games like a fuck-ton and I have heard more than enough of the gamer trash-talk slang that I believe this to be a genuine representation of how gamers speak to each other about their characters. Also, I asked a high school friend who games. I have credibility.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	27. part 3: 7: ich bin

**seven**

 **ich bin**

* * *

For all the levity that closed the evening, Ella's sleep is disturbed that night.

She wakes with sweat on her brow, a tremor in her limbs, and her room halfway torn apart by rampant magic knocking items off her shelves and onto the floor. Raven is perched on her stomach, walking over Ella's body heedless of the pin-pricks of her talons - probably for the best, given that Raven scratching against her stomach is what tore her from a vague nightmare.

Ella shudders.

She can't remember much - except for that stomach-churning nausea and a wild cackling in her ears and the sense that she couldn't breathe, like air was trapped in her lungs.

She must have been dreaming of the hag. Not good.

Ella raises her hand, tracing it down Raven's beak, waiting for her heart to slow.

There is a knock on her door, three sharp raps that beckon for an answer. Ella is not surprised at all to see Alice standing in the hallway, pristine in a white silk nightdress and matching robe and slippers. Alice's gimlet eyes are bright in the darkness. She looks distinctly uncomfortable to be standing at Ella's door in the middle of the night.

"I heard…" Alice stops, eyes flicking back and forth. She looks to the turbulent mess in the room, scattered about the floor, and frowns delicately.

Ella is confused for a moment, because hadn't she warded her room for silence for this exact reason? But then - of course, Alice is a _banshee_. And from what Ella understands, there isn't much that a banshee doesn't hear.

"I'm fine," she says.

Alice nods sharply, stepping back. "Of course you are. I'm only doing my due diligence as the RA here. Nothing more and nothing less."

"Right."

They both know it's a lie. If Alice is at Ella's door right after Ella has woken from a nightmare about a hag - well. She's a banshee for a reason.

Ella closes the door, looking to Raven. "I think I'm in trouble."

And Raven says, "What was your first clue?"

* * *

 **A/N: All of my best revelations come during the witching hour, too.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	28. part 3: 8: paperback head

**eight**

 **paperback head**

* * *

The following morning - Saturday - Ella is woken by Raven pecking none-too-gently on her scalp, a sort of wake-up alarm that Ella is forced to acknowledge. She thinks that Raven probably takes a little too much pleasure in inflicting her beak upon Ella's person, but as Ella had yet to wake up late after instituting this version of an alarm, she can't quite complain.

It's better than the alternative, in any case.

Every once in a while, Ella's shifts at the Student Center are doubled on the weekends, which is fine because she doesn't know what to do with herself with too much free time. The additional time and a half pay doesn't hurt, either. As it is, she's due to be manning the campus store promptly at noon, and hauls her ass out of bed even though a few more hours of nightmare-free sleep would be greatly appreciated.

The communal bathroom on her floor is thankfully empty - not that many of the girls are very squeamish about dropping towels in front of all and sundry. Ella certainly isn't shy, a side effect of being in foster care for so long. For others, she figures it's an even cross-section between in-born confidence, whatever creature they are, and the time of day. Alice the banshee, for example, kicks everyone out of the bathroom when it's her turn; Bree the werewolf, on the other hand, is known to parade straight from her room to the bathroom completely in the buff.

To each their own, Ella supposes, but she is a bit relieved that most of the people in her dorm are taking advantage of the weekend free of early morning classes. She lingers in the hot water, breathing deeply the scent of lavender and honey, forcing her mind to center on the stinging pitter-patter of the shower on the back of her neck. When she emerges, the mirrors are completely fogged and she doesn't have to look at herself as she piles her wet hair on top of her head in a loose bun.

Perhaps because she's feeling so unsettled today, she pulls clothes on that are designed for comfort; paint-stained dark jeans, an oversized cowl-necked black sweater, combat boots. Chapstick. An olive green canvas jacket that has seen better days. She pockets a small sketchbook and a handy mechanical pencil before she leaves, and asks Raven to stay close by for the day - just in case.

It's no surprise that she isn't hungry; Ella rarely ever feels hunger after the kind of sleep she's had and sometimes it lasts for days. When she was living with Carlisle, it was something of an issue. At Red Lily Hall, she can't imagine that her eating habits have come to anyone's attention, but she makes a mental note all the same to at least try a muffin or _something_. Magic needs fuel. She can't go around fainting and expect to be able to -

The thought falls short as she registers how utterly absurd she's being.

She needs to _protect_ herself? From _what_? That silly old hag? Bad dreams? _I can handle night terrors and panic attacks_ , she tells herself firmly. _And I don't need to be paranoid about a whole lot of nothing_.

Still, she's angry at herself, berating the inexplicable fissure of fear that has been lingering since her visit to Bokhandel. If she didn't have to work, Ella is sure she'd be out in the forest taking her frustration out on an innocent tree - not exactly a healthy sort of irritation, is it?

Her internal enragement is so consuming that as she crosses the largest courtyard on campus, skirting around one of the stumpy maple trees, she ends up tripping over someone's leg.

Ella crashes to the ground on her side, her hip taking most of the impact, and winces at the rush of magic that escapes her control - an instinctive response to any sudden shock, she's found, and certainly strong enough to clear all of the fallen leaves from the immediate area. As if she's being threatened instead of being a klutz.

She opens her eyes and very abruptly happens upon a familiar amber-gold lifeline.

He is sitting under a tree, reading a book with quiet intensity, one leg drawn up casually beneath his elbow as he flips pages. She never could have imagined that he would be so strikingly handsome, but he is in possession of the kind of features the old Renaissance masters would have died to paint and carve. _She_ wants to draw him.

Anthony Masen is a man of curly, loosely-cropped toffee-colored hair, burnt at the ends with a flare of bronze; a heavy, dark brow with the left eyebrow bisected cleanly by a long silvery scar from forehead down to the corner of his eye; a firm, clean jawline, cheeks dotted with constellation moles; a generous mouth, turned down at the sides as he frowns at her unexpected interruption; and a patrician nose, which must have been broken at some point and hadn't healed quite right.

His eyes are the same as when he is a wolf. Clear amber - exactly like rum - edged very neatly in verdant.

Except for the emotion in them, of course, which is more complicated that Ella can wrap her mind around. He seems conflicted, somehow, as he looks at her. Concerned and surprised, but also aloof, as if he doesn't _want_ to care. Which she totally understands; she doesn't want to care, either.

But she does.

Because he's familiar to her in a way that is utterly visceral. And she thinks it's the same for him, too.

Only - and the very thought is _beyond weird_ \- but she doesn't think that they're familiar to each other in the same way. The way his lifeline reaches and then recoils is a dead giveaway of _something_ that she doesn't understand quite yet. She'll have to think about it.

Just not at a time where she - for the first time in her life - is speechless. Where she isn't angry, like the way she's been angry at least three times a day for as long as she can remember. Just - placid.

Her gaze flicks down to his book. It's a tattered copy of _Leaves of Grass_ and riddled with highlighter, penned annotations, paperclips, and sticky notes. He snaps it shut at her perusal.

"Are you an English major?" she asks, a bit dumbly. It's the first thing that comes to mind. She's still sprawled across the dying, yellowing grass, leaning up on her hand and hip, which throbs dully in what is sure to be a massive bruise.

He stands, face impassive, tucking his paperback copy of Walt Whitman's greatest works in the back pocket of his stone-washed jeans. "I have to go."

And then he does.

She stares after him for long enough that she's late to her shift.

* * *

 **A/N: I am guilty of doing this to books, as well.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	29. part 3: 9: spitballing

**nine**

 **spitballing**

* * *

The Student Center is basically the hub of campus, in the way that only a place that caters directly to the college lifestyle could possibly be popular. The Student Center has the best wi-fi connection, the campus bookstore on the upper floor, the food kiosks and coffee bar in the food court on the lower level, the student store - where Ella works - and a helpful selection of oddly specific self-help pamphlets.

The first time she saw the one labeled _How To Tell Unplanned Pregnancy from Full Moon PMS_ , she almost choked on her water.

It's a slow day, for the most part, but then again most double shifts are. She rings up a few late-semester book acquisitions from two giggling trolls - no irony there - and spends twenty minutes convincing a particularly irate faerie that Willie Wonka's Everlasting Gobstoppers do not, in fact, last forever.

"That's false advertising!" says the faerie, her wings fluttering rapidly in agitation.

Ella shrugs. "That's human nature," she replies flatly. "Did you want to buy the candy or not?"

The faerie huffs, spins in a quick circle, and zips out of the Student Center with a trail of sparkling magic in her wake. Ella scoots the candy under the counter, sits her ass back on her mostly-comfortable stool, and wastes time with her sketchbook. Time lapses in the mind-numbing mid-afternoon lag, which is the only breath of a break she knows she'll have until well after the dinner-time rush. She's trying _very hard_ not to think about Anthony Masen and how _weird_ their encounter was, but it's not working. She looks down at her sketchbook, scowling at the photo-realistic study of the contours of Anthony's face. She hadn't even realized she was doing it.

Of course this is the time Peter pops up. Ella shuts her sketchbook casually, counting on Peter's lack of observational skills to not notice that she's obviously trying to hide something. She's in luck; Peter is obviously occupied by other matters, his lapis lazuli eyes clouded with whatever thoughts are causing his brow to knit so tightly.

The first words out of his mouth, before he has even draped himself halfway across the checkout counter, is a rushed, "Do you think he could tell?"

Ella slowly tucks her sketchbook away, not really paying attention. "What?"

" _Riley_. Obviously."

"Naturally," she mutters dryly.

"So?"

Ella looks up at the pressing tone in Peter's voice. "So, _what_?"

Peter gestures broadly, nervously. His ears are pink. "Do you think he could tell that I might - like, that I could possibly see him - us - I mean, do you think he knows?"

"That you don't know how to form a sentence? Probably. You've been friends since high school."

"Oh, my God. You're so _mean_."

She sighs, propping her chin on her hand. "I think he's either really dense or asexual." She pauses. "Of course, it's also entirely possible that you're equally as incapable of flirting as you are at speaking like a normal human being, which doesn't exactly help your chances."

"So salty," he chides, though he does lean away from the counter, reassured by her assessment.

He has confidence in her, she realizes. He trusts her judgment. Not many people have done that in Ella's life - given her their trust. She can count those people on one hand, and of the two, she let one down horribly.

(Not that she thinks of her foster sister. She doesn't. It wasn't her fault, except for when her mind insists that everything that happened in that house could have been prevented, if only Ella were faster or smarter or more savvy.)

Ella rolls her eyes. "Why are you here bothering me, anyway? Don't you have anything better to do?"

"Oh, right!" Peter exclaims, mood shifting abruptly into his usual up-beat excitement. In a way, he and Riley are perfect for each other; both _clearly_ have a flair for drama. "I happen to have very important business. Very important."

Her brows raise in reluctant curiosity. "Which would be?"

"What're your plans for Halloween?"

* * *

 **A/N: Can I just say how much I adore this Peter? Love him.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	30. part 3: 10: why so lonely

**ten**

 **why so lonely**

* * *

Another night, another howl - Anthony Masen's wretched, soul-splitting howl to be precise.

It wrenches her right out of her dark dreams and she is startled to feel a tear drip slowly from her eye in response to the sound of this howl. It's so intense that her magic rises up, electric and eager, as if trying to meet the call.

Ella rolls onto her side, pillowing her head on her arm with a deep scowl slanted across her face. What's eating at Anthony Masen?

Why is he so - lonely?

And why does she feel like part of it is _her_ fault?

* * *

 **A/N: Alright, lads and ladies. At this point, it seems prudent for my very fragile ego to clear some things up.**

 **Fanfic that doesn't read like a fanfic!** Yes, that's pretty much my modus operandi. I've never been shy about the fact that I use this site as a platform to develop my writing. In fact, the only "fanfiction" I've ever legitimately written is _derivation_. And I personally enjoy when fanfiction doesn't feel or read like fanfiction, just as much as I enjoy actual fanfiction.

 **Confusion! Missing Details! Por quoi!** Yes, a deliberate writing choice. You readers only know what Ella and select characters know. Which is to say, I am purposefully writing the narrative in such a way that makes all of these characters unreliable narrators to some degree.

For Ella, this is because it's part of her being a magician that all of the magic stuff comes _naturally_ , so she's not necessarily thinking about the mechanics of what she's doing because a lot of it is instinctive - and also because there's a lot that _she_ doesn't know. And a lot that she has to figure out. You're meant to go on this exploration with Ella.

Where is the fun in hand-feeding you details when I can creatively sprinkle these details in at the most opportune - and dramatic - times? It's a habit of fanfiction to kind of just shunt all that information to the front of the story, which I'm trying very hard not to do.

If you're confused, I think that's good. If you're trying to piece together the hints that are there, that's good too. Although, if you do have a question, I'm more than happy to PM a response and jot it down as a note to be clarified in the story - though I would hope most of it is obvious from context clues.

 **Ella! Anthony! Le gasp!** Ah, yes, another habit of mine. Such as NOVA - you know, Astra and Khai, anyone? It's another intentional writing choice, this time specifically for these characters.

For Edward, he's going by Anthony because he's a junior in this story; the senior Edward Anthony is still kicking. In middle school, I had a friend who was a junior, too (Franklin Keith) and _he_ insisted we call him Porcupine after his hairstyle instead of using his middle name or calling him Frankie (he was, admittedly, a weird guy). In this story, it's a choice made because Edward isn't a 100 year old vampire - he's a 21 year old werewolf with some baggage and I'm all about making that distinction.

For Bella, she's going by Ella - really, not that much of a departure and Ella is a diminutive of Isabella - because again, I'm making a distinction. She's not the pale-skinned, brown-eyed human she usually is; in this incarnation, she could very well be Persian or Indian or Turkish or Puerto Rican or Egyptian _or whatever_. I'm playing with her ethnicity for a reason that _is_ definitely revealed later in the story. Ella is much more ethnically forgiving than Bella, to be perfectly honest.

That said, Ella and Anthony already have a ship name on Facebook. #Anthella

 **Also, he's a werewolf! Noooo!** Except, _yes!_ He is! And I'm so fucking stoked about it because he's not a werewolf like the Twilight werewolves, which I think has probably traumatized some of us? I don't know. But he's not ever going to be anything but a werewolf in this story, so….

 **The point is:** I'm trying to write a realistic story on multiple levels. I want to create a main character so compelling that she feels like someone who would actually exist in the world, flaws and all. I want to create a plot with a mystery that unfolds the same way clues do in real life, where they don't come all at once and they all certainly aren't clear. Rest assured that all the sub-plots happening do get resolved eventually, if not as soon as you'd like them.

The outline for this has the word _saga_ in it for a reason; if expanded, it would probably be a few hundred thousand words _easily_ but I'm not ready to write all of that out. I'm in my final year of my Masters, taking care of a disabled parent, and working part-time, on top of trying to create a manuscript for SERPENTINE that a publisher would pick up. These vignette-drabble-whatever chapters are written with the express purpose of ironing out all the kinks of a plot that has arcs that are very long and very short and all of which intertwine. I think I've been upfront that this is by no means a "complete" version of this fiction. I just - had to get it out and make sense of it, you know?

 **I said I had an idea and this is me trying to flesh it out. It involves a little experimentation but I've come to find that anyone who reads my stories is open to a healthy dose of creative license. Which, if I may be frank, is why you're reading in the first place.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it. And I hope you all know how much I appreciate that you stick with me as I continue to develop as a writer, as I owe a considerable amount of credit to your faith.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	31. part 3: 11: what's this, what's this

**eleven**

 **what's this, what's this**

* * *

For the most part, Halloween passes quietly. She hadn't expected it. To be perfectly honest, after all of her disturbed dreams about the yellow-green gaze of the hag from the bookstore - something that hasn't faded in the slightest over the past week - she expected _something_ nefarious to go down on Halloween night.

After all, Samhain marked a day when the veil between living and dead was rather thin, and what better day than that for something bad to happen? Even if it wasn't the hag, at the very least Ella expected that one of the harbingers in Charmstone would screech in the night. What was the full moon of October called? The Blood Moon? _Right_. And yet, Halloween night is simply Halloween night.

Is it weird that she's a bit disappointed that the only _big whoop_ on Halloween is the fact that Alice bitches at the residents of Red Lily Hall about the proper storage of candy in the bedrooms? Apparently, the banshee has a thing about ants.

Not that Ella would blame her. Ants are annoying little creatures. Bitey. Not unlike Alice herself, really.

She _does_ , however, take offense to Alice's derisive snort after Ella offers to ward the house against infestations. As if the idea is completely absurd, which it isn't. Just to spite Alice, she _does_ drag out a metal nail file and scratches a combination of runes on the front and back doors of Red Lily Hall, smiling in satisfaction when she charges them and a magical barrier against little pest blooms in a translucent bubble around the dorm building, quickly fading from sight even though Ella can still feel it. Bree is witness to Ella's little rebellion and spends a half-hour smiling wide enough to show _all_ of her teeth.

The real highlight of Halloween is the event that Peter has roped her into. It's a tradition of Charmstone that all of the older kids get together and make the town proper into a respectable haunted-maze of sorts. Apparently, a bunch of hedge-witches get together and rally the maze in the town square, and then leave the haunting to anybody who has the time or desire.

And it's not like participating in such an even is really Ella's _thing_ , but Peter had been so earnest after he explained that he'd be taking his three younger siblings - six-year-old triplets - around to give his parents the night off. Three kids seems like _a lot_ for Peter and it's not as if Ella is the only one he'd wheedled into joining. He's been doing the same thing to all his other friends since high school. She's actually kind of begrudgingly honored that he even thought to include her.

She _very originally_ goes as a member of the walking dead, streaking her hair with baby oil and red paints and dressing in a simple navy shift dress that she's ripped and dirtied up for the occasion, smudging kohl around her eyes and overly-powdering her face to make her complexion sallow. Not that she needs make-up to give her that _hasn't slept in days_ look, but more so it looks intentional rather than the result of too many nights of disrupted sleep.

(The dreams are getting worse - the lingering yellow-green gaze of the hag sunk deep into her subconscious, until she's waking up breathless every few hours, tearing herself out of never-ending darkness before Raven can squawk in her ear.)

Taking the chill of the air into account, she dashes a _warming_ rune over her sternum in eyeliner. She has come to find that magic is immensely useful for all sorts of things - the kind of things that Carlisle is distinctly disapproving of. Not because there's, like, bad juju in using magic for trivial things, but more that most magic-users are _extremely_ limited in how much magic they even have the ability to use, and so it's kind of frowned upon to just use magic willy-nilly. But Ella doesn't really have those restrictions, at least not that she's aware of, and she has no issue in making life a little more convenient. It's one of the major upsides of being a magician, aside from the magician's glass foci ring, which is an ever-present reminder that if she ever _needs_ it, magic is there.

(Enough of an upside to outweigh the brutal reality of The Order hunting down magicians and killing their parents and leaving children orphans, unless otherwise wiping out entire families to crush magicians before they bloom? Too soon to tell. The very little she knows about The Order - about any of it - is actually terrifying. She does her best not to think of it very often.)

Bree is practically bouncing in place by the time Ella makes it down stairs and it takes her a minute to figure out what the werewolf has dressed as. And then, with some amount of incredulity, she says, "Are you seriously dressed as a Troll Doll?"

Bree fluffs her rainbow-bright hair, which is teased to high heaven, and compliments the sparkles dusted over her skin. She smiles gleefully. "Of course not. I mean, almost, but not really? I'm a troll from the movie Trolls. Clearly."

Ella shakes her head. "You know, the actual trolls on campus aren't going to like that."

"That's because they're trolls."

No truer words had ever been spoken. Even though _real_ trolls are generally earth-toned - just like humans - and do have bushy, unruly hair, they're not the friendliest of creatures. She's almost positive that they're assholes _on purpose_ , just like internet trolls, but Ella has no intention of point-blank asking if that's the case, because it's entirely possible that it's racially insensitive to assume that trolls are trolls. And trolls, like goblins, have sharp teeth.

She's had her fair share of being bitten this year, thanks.

Ella and Bree are joined on their excursion from the Viridity campus to Charmstone's town square by Peter, Riley, and Jasper, some with more enthusiasm than others.

Like always, Jasper is completely baked for the night, humming a jaunty tune around a wide smile as he greets them with a dip of his head. Around his neck hangs a bicycle lock still attached to a bicycle wheel. It takes her a moment to grasp the concept, but the pun is side-splittingly funny. In the company of the other boys, Jasper is dressed as a _third wheel_.

(Jasper is obviously sharper than Ella initially thought if he's picked up on Peter's not-so-little crush, and she wonders again if Riley isn't as dense as he seems.)

Riley, on the other hand, has gone for the classics, dressed as the dour-faced Mr. Darcy come back from the dead. He does not look out of place with a ruffled-lace collar or spit-shined shoes fit for any English lord. And he seems determined to stay in-character, side-eying them all with a put-upon expression that would make Jane Austen proud.

Peter, of course, has embraced the Halloween spirit, taking advantage of his lanky frame and donning a black suit jacket, black skinny jeans, and a Jack Skellington mask that is decidedly kid-friendly. He flips the mask up over his forehead. He smiles broadly. " _Oh, could it be I got my wish? What's this_?"

Riley curls his lip, clearly deep into being annoyed by Peter's exuberance. "If I have to spend the entire night listening to you quote that stupid movie, I swear to God, Peter, I will pay someone good money to seal your mouth shut."

Peter is far from perturbed by the weak threat. He flips his mask down, then sings, " _What's this? I can't believe my eyes-"_

"Ears," Bree corrects with a pointed smirk at her twin.

 _"I must be dreaming! Wake up Jack-"_

"Peter! _Wake up,_ Peter!" Jasper chimes in, following up with a smooth addition to the tune as he joins Peter in song. _"-this isn't fair! What's this?"_

Peter and Jasper exchange a high-five that makes Ella think Peter isn't as unfamiliar with Jasper's extracurricular activities as she'd previously assumed, and Riley stomps off into the night. Ella trails along after the group, listening to a rather well-done cover of The Nightmare Before Christmas' opening song with a light feeling in her chest. She's actually looking forward to the night.

Once she catches sight of Charmstone's town square, she has no doubt that magic has been employed to create such a drastic transformation. The rising maze in the center aside, the air is alight with the scent of cider and firesmoke and sage, and glowing yellow-orange orbs of fire bob high above the ground. Massive webs stretch over the faces of buildings. And all the creatures, if not otherwise in costume, are in their natural state of being - however humanoid or not - with fangs and claws out for all to see. No wonder the human population of Charmstone is generally in the know of the supernatural world; none of the supernatural residents seem to make much effort to hide it.

But then, as she steps into the town proper, Ella blinks at the shivering whoosh of magic that floats over her skin - a low-level ward, not unlike the ones that protect the town from human attention, only these are centered on the memory somehow. _She_ doesn't feel fuzzy in the slightest, and she suspects that many of the creatures are also unaffected. But judging by the way Riley and Jasper and Peter shake their heads in mild confusion as they near the center of town, it's obvious that this new ward is somehow meant to make the human mind more - accepting, maybe.

A rather brilliant failsafe measure, she thinks, even with the ley lines crisscrossing over Charmstone feel a bit - off. Again.

It isn't long until Peter deftly locates his parents at a caramel apple stand. He has his mother's eyes and his father's height and even though his face is hidden by that mask, she can imagine how freely he's smiling as he folds both parents into a lingering hug. He nudges three shorter figures, all with masks from The Nightmare Before Christmas, and promises Mr. and Mrs. Martin to have them home by ten. Then he takes the time to introduce his young siblings to his friends, for a moment being heart-stoppingly serious as he tells Charles, Charlotte, and Makenna to find Bree or Riley or Ella if they get lost.

"They're my friends, so they'll take care of you. Understood?" Peter waits for agreement and then spreads his arms wide to the maze behind him. "Then, _come with us and you will see, this our town of Halloween!"_

As Peter and his siblings rush into the maze, Ella is certain that she doesn't mistake the terribly fond look Riley shoots at Peter's back. Maybe those feelings aren't as one-sided as Peter thinks they are.

She saves that bit of information for a day when Peter is being particularly loud.

But that is the tenor of the entire night. Between Peter's lively antics, Jasper and Bree's willingness to go along with comedic his bits, and Riley's acerbic response to all of it, Ella is thoroughly distracted from the troubles that have haunted her dreams. She even casts a bit of magic on a jack-o-lantern just for the benefit of Peter's young siblings, making the face carved into pumpkin animate in time with Peter's recitation of one of The Pumpkin King's speeches.

It feels _good_ being involved with something like this. She'd never had this as a child, had never been so innocent as to crave it, but now she understands what she missed. And in spite of how mad that makes her - a festering wound in the back of her mind - all of her worries melt away.

Or at least they do until Ella turns, feeling eyes on her back. She turns, peering through the crowds, forcing herself to look through the tangle of auras and connect-the-dot lifelines -

But there is nothing to be seen.

* * *

 **A/N: So classic. Has anyone been Sally for Halloween? It's my dream.**

 **Also, there was _some_ clarification about some things. See? It comes _organically_. Like tomatoes. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	32. part 3: 12: heads or tails

**twelve**

 **heads or tails**

* * *

There is no break between mid-terms and the other half of the first semester courses, which Ella is kind of grateful for. However, it does mean that her reason for ducking Carlisle's calls is no longer useful - she's already taken the tests and has no legitimate need to study, anymore.

He persuades her to go to a town meeting. She relents. She has missed him, after all, even if she does feel oddly about this murky paternal situation he's in - caught between her and Alice as he is. Read daughter, adoptive daughter. Trying to get to know one while also not neglecting the other, although honestly, Ella has been _distant_.

(When she thinks that Carlisle is _really_ Alice's father, that they have a connection Ella would never be able to emulate, she feels a bit sick. A bit hot around the eyes. And- and _mad_. Yes, angry about it all.)

On the first Friday of November, Ella trades her shift at the Student Center for the much-avoided Sunday morning shift, then walks the short mile down to Charmstone, a route that is familiar by now. She's early by the time she reaches the town hall and the assortment of folding chairs lined up in front of the mayor's lectern, and so she loiters in front of the building, hands tucked into the pockets of her vintage leather jacket and ears protected from the cold with a coal-black beanie. It's chilly enough that her breath puffs out visibly each time she exhales and all the trees are barren. Winter seems to come early in Charmstone.

"Ella!"

She looks up, watching silently as Carlisle unfolds from his little white VW - a car that easily passes for Herbie, honestly - and waves at her with a broad smile. He rounds the front bumper, then helps a curvaceous, auburn-haired woman out of the passenger's, and Ella's stomach sinks right down to her feet.

She thought - and she feels _so stupid_ for assuming - but she thought that he just wanted to spend time with her. Just Carlisle and Ella, like it used to be. Just the druid and the magician.

 _Guess not._

Carlisle introduces her to Esme Platt - his long-time sort-of-girlfriend, mother of his child, ex-Coterie partner, and the reason Alice is the way she is. That banshee rule about love, marriage, and child rearing is _really_ stupid, if anyone cared to ask Ella. And the way that Esme has kind of shit over the whole thing makes her think that she's not alone in thinking so.

Not that knowing any of this makes Ella's greeting any warmer. When Esme smiles at her with a perfect, red-lipped, polite greeting, Ella tilts her head down, and mumbles some facsimile of a _hello_. She's a bit too distracted by the way Carlisle and Esme's lifelines reach for each other - the patient blue of a druid twining so sweetly with the cool, ghostly grey of a banshee - effectively connecting the two on a soul level.

She's still new to understanding the lifelines. The great majority of the ones she's seen reach out without ever meeting anyone else's in a tangible way and so she's been operating under the assumption - for lack of any resource to tell her _differently_ \- that lifelines, like auras, represent the kind of creature someone is, or at the very least, denote some kind of familial connection between people, like the thin string that links Bree and Riley when they're together. And she's sure that lifelines mean a crap load of other things that she hasn't figured out yet, but -

But now, looking at Esme and Carlisle's lifelines tied so securely together, she thinks that she's been wrong. Well, not _all_ wrong, as the way lifelines looked and felt to her magic - because she's fairly sure that only magicians can see and interpret them, for whatever reason - certainly did give a huge clue to creature-or-human status. But then, so did auras, even if auras are a bit more representative of mood than anything else.

There's no mistaking this, though. Carlisle and Esme are _soulmates_. They're lifelines are straight-up _complete_ now, in a way they hadn't been before. She thinks now that if she ever saw Carlisle by himself, his lifeline would still stretch in whatever direction Esme was. She doesn't think they can be broken apart, now.

(Inexplicably, she thinks of Anthony Masen's lifeline reaching toward her and then recoiling, and she frowns deeply, because _what even_.)

Carlisle is the first to recover from Ella's lackluster greeting of his _soulmate_ , pasting on a charming smile. "Well, let us not dally any longer. Wouldn't want them to start the meeting without us, would we?"

Esme pulls out a voice recorder - so old-school - from her purse, along with a notebook. Right, she's a journalist. "Yes, we simply must know how the great fence-height debate of 2017 is settled and I'm filling in for one of the writers at the _Chronicle_ …"

Ella follows them inside, sits to Carlisle's right on the aisle seat and doesn't look up from the way her jeans fray over her knee for the next hour. Not that anybody _notices_.

A swirl of burning acid creeps up to her chest, the kind of slow burning anger - a seething - that is so familiar to her it's almost felt by rote. She can't _believe_ Carlisle. Really. Making her come to this stupid meeting, only to ignore her the whole time because Esme is so fascinating or whatever.

Angry doesn't even begin to cover it.

Her attention is briefly caught toward the end of the meeting, when Elisabeth Masen stands from the front row and proudly announces that the forests around Charmstone are remaining secure and safe. The redcap situation is _officially_ over, as there had not been any more sighted by her wolves or random hikers. The alpha wolf of Charmstone formally lifts the ban on Beacon Lake and surrounding areas, much to mayor Newton's excitement. Apparently, hikes around Beacon Lake are a huge tourist draw and the town had taken a monetary hit when the redcaps forced them to temporarily forego the business.

Elisabeth Masen is a reserved woman, and so she sits down while the mayor is still gushing about her announcement - only she sits right down next to her son, the alpha-in-training. He's facing forward and on the other side of the room and he probably hasn't even noticed Ella, but for some reason, _his_ lifeline, _his_ aura is the brightest in the room to her, brighter even than the wham-pow punch of his mother's raw power.

(Why? _Why?_ )

She doesn't have any time to think about it, because the town meeting is called to an end and then Carlisle is turning to her - finally - and asking her if she'd like to have dinner instead of relying on dorm food. And even though she's a bit pissed at him, she can't deny that it would be nice not to eat a boxed meal. He looks so happy that she's agreed that a little piece of Ella dies inside.

And then Esme is asking them to wait because she needs a quote from the mayor about Elisabeth Masen's announcement and then Carlisle is telling Ella that they'll meet her at Sam's Diner down the street - effectively dismissing her, really, with his hand on the small of Esme's back.

Ella fumes and is quick to remove herself from their presence. She'd rather brave the cold than look at Carlisle right now. And she's mad enough that she's seriously contemplating just going back to her dorm and skipping the happy-happy dinner in her very near future. Maybe she'll even send Alice in her stead. It's not like Carlisle would notice and _Alice_ is his real daughter, anyway. He probably prefers Alice to Ella. Which is _fine_ , because then he can have his oh-so-happy and complete family with those two banshees and Ella can go back to being _just Ella_ , not Ella Cullen, and nobody would know the difference at all and -

The maelstrom of anger in her mind simmers in an instant as Ella looks up and stops cold in her tracks.

The hag is staring at her from across the street, a black-toothed smile below the glint of yellow-green eyes, and a sense of _hunger_ as she looks at Ella. And Ella _knows_ that hunger, has felt that hunger haunting her dreams for almost three weeks, and it's the kind of craving that wants to scrape at the marrow in her bones.

She turns her head forcibly away from those icky gleaming eyes, her magic bristling defensively around her, colder than the air outside.

But when Ella looks away, chilled down to her very core, she notices something odd.

Anthony Masen's eyes are flaring bright gold and he is glaring menacingly at the old hag - and the strong golden-amber cord of his lifeline is vibrating angrily. Protectively.

Her stomach flips, fluttering wildly. But she can't tell if it's because she's nervous that someone has noticed the hag's preoccupation with her - or if she's relieved. It's a bit of a toss up and she is quick to leave before she can make her mind up, walking quickly to the relative safety of Sam's Diner without a backward glance at either the hag or the werewolf.

She has a super-awkward dinner to attend with Carlisle and Esme and she has to act like _nothing_ is wrong.

* * *

 **A/N: Oddly, not a difficult frame of mind to get into with this chapter. I've got Daddy Issues™.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	33. part 3: 13: historians and hags

**thirteen**

 **historians and hags**

* * *

Even if the Viridity libraries lacked information about magicians, she had to hold hope that the libraries would have some insight into hags. And maybe she should be bringing her concerns to Carlisle, but she doesn't want to worry him.

Doesn't even want to talk to him, really.

(Or anyone, but _especially_ Carlisle, because she's so aggravated about him and his banshees and how she doesn't belong in any of that. And more than that, she feels like she can't _trust_ him - Carlisle, the first person to ever not screw her over - and she doesn't know _why_ she's feeling that way, so she's just going to avoid it altogether.)

The hag, though, _that_ is something she's willing to talk about. And think about.

So, on the first day when she doesn't have a shift at the Student Center or homework or classes, she wakes up early from another nightmare-laden night of sleep, chest tight from hours of panicked, restricted breathing, and heads to one of the libraries.

It's as she is listening to the librarian - human, very tense, and downright anal about the care of books - explain how the library is organized and how to search in the computer database that Ella spots Peter slumping into the building. He lights up as soon as he sees her, looking to all the world very much awake even with pillow-case creases on his cheek and truly atrocious bedhead.

She sighs in resignation. Peter is a barnacle most of the time. There isn't any way that she's going to get away from him now that he's done that eye-locked-on-target thing.

He's not her first choice, but then nobody would be. She likes the solo thing. She's used to it. And dealing with the hag situation is something she wants to handle _alone_. But if it _had_ to be anyone getting involved, it might as well be Peter.

(Honest, heart-on-his-sleeve Peter, who hasn't done anything yet to betray the little bit of trust that she's placed in him.)

(Plus, he was in that bookstore with the hag, too, and he's really the easier target as far as she's concerned. Forewarned is forearmed, and all that.)

Peter is, of course, totally onboard with researching hags once he catches wind of why Ella is at the library. "Are you kidding?" he asks with raised brows. "No, I'm _definitely_ helping with this because that hag gave me some _serious_ _Hansel & Gretel_ flashbacks, and not even the good ones where Hansel and Gretel are super, badass witch hunters."

She levels him with a droll stare. " _Hansel & Gretel_ is, like, the most tame of the Grimm fairytales."

"You lie!"

"I'm really not."

He whistles lowly. "My God, behold she with the nerves of steel."

She rolls her eyes. Peter grew up in a happy, safe home; he wouldn't understand that there are far scarier things in the world than some words on a page.

(Like, putting your hard-won trust in someone and watching as they casually stomp all over it repeatedly, _like Carlisle._ Who she isn't thinking about.)

They head down to the basement, where according to the library's computer system is where all the old books are located. Ella already knows this, having gone through all of Viridity's libraries searching for information about magicians and coming up short. She honestly doesn't have a lot of hope in this hag search, either. Nobody could ever truly call Ella an optimist.

Peter, on the other hand, doesn't appear deterred by the daunting task ahead of them, probably because - as he oh-so-excitedly reveals - he's a huge, book-loving nerd. Peter is studying to be a historian. He lives and breathes for old dusty books and, as it happens, doesn't only possess random pop-culture trivia. He quite eagerly sits down at a table while Ella summons books from the shelves, reading off the titles with a flick of her magician-ringed fingers and floating the books in front of Peter.

Hags, she soon learns, are fucking intolerable. She means it almost literally.

In the supernatural world, hags have the equivalent status of registered sex offenders; they are witches who took a very wrong turn somewhere down the line, got too power hungry, did some questionable rituals involving magic draining, and served their time. If a hag is out and about, they are under the watch of whatever authority is nearest to them. In Charmstone's case, that authority is the local werewolf pack, who is _supposed_ to keep the hag in line.

(Although, maybe all this creepy behavior is _new_ for the hag?)

(But then, there was the way Anthony Masen looked at the last town meeting and _she just doesn't know what to do with any of this_.)

If a hag violates her "probation", there's a no-questions-asked clause about getting rid of them. Hags have, like, a two-strike policy, and Ella has no doubt in her mind that Charmstone's resident old hag is gearing up for _something_.

(She thinks about the way the ley lines, the natural magical currents, in Charmstone have been acting _weird_ and wonders yet again if it's so subtle that only _she_ is capable of picking up on it, or if it's even related to the hag at all. Should she say something? And who would she say it to? Again, she doesn't know. And she loathes the not-knowing.)

"I'm all for second chances," Peter says, wrinkling his nose as he peers at a particularly graphic depiction of a ritual that is apparently all-the-rage for hags. "But, _dude_ , this is fucked up. Like, seriously twisted. Hags are -"

"Fucking horrendous," Ella finishes simply.

"Yeah." Peter nods, closing the book carefully and pushing it away with a look of disgust. "Evil, old, magic-addicted, soul-molesters - _that's_ what hags are. Jesus."

"I don't think Christ is going to be of any use here."

"Mother Mary, then?"

"Peter."

His weak smile drops. "You're right. I know. Humor is just my, like, coping mechanism. And chocolate." He sighs, dropping his head back and blinking up at the ceiling; his aura is exuding a twist of squicked-out brown in the usual bright orange and it's clear that he's _disturbed_ by what they've just learned.

She can relate, especially because it seems like the hag has fixated on her - and because it's obvious now that her weeks of nightmare-filled nights are in direct response to the innate reaction her magic is having to the sheer wrongness of whatever it is the hag is doing. Or planning.

She can't wrap her head around why the hag is allowed to be in Charmstone. Or alive, for that matter. She knows that one-time offenders aren't really a thing; if you've done something bad once, you'll do something bad again.

"So, what are you going to do?"

Ella shrugs. "I don't know."

(Because what she _wants_ to do and what she _should_ do are two completely different things.)

* * *

 **A/N: Or, _in which Ella, like Jon Snow, knows nothing_.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	34. part 3: 14: don't bend, don't scream

**fourteen**

 **don't bend, don't scream**

* * *

It becomes a _thing_ , an unspoken and agreed-upon tradition that finds Ella each Friday night at Sam's Diner with a group of people she can comfortably call friends. Sort of. They're tolerable, at the very least, and she can use them as an excuse to duck Carlisle's ever-increasing voicemails and texts. Her weekly date with a strawberry milkshake and observing the Peter-Riley _will-they-won't-they_ dance is a readymade excuse to just check-out of the realities of life for a few hours every week.

As November crawls along, Ella manages to rig up a set of sigils etched in plum-dark lipstick on her bedframe that finally lets her rest easy. As far as compact little spells go, her sigil isn't anything extraordinary, just an intertwining of _sleep, peace,_ and _protection_ runes locked together with a drop of her blood in the center - but it gets the job done. Ella no longer wakes from breathtaking nightmares and the shadows beneath her eyes diminish slowly.

And yet, it doesn't fix the problem. Not really. She's just put on a band-aid and it's starting to chafe, to pull at her skin because it's not working. She's sleeping fine, but the cause of her nightmares isn't gone.

It never fails that Ella sees the hag anytime she goes to Sam's Diner. Always from a distance, always at the very moment that Ella finds herself alone, for however little time that actually is. Always, always there.

But she's not afraid of the hag. Creeped out in the extreme? Totally bugging at the mere notion of getting within spitting distance? Yes and yes.

Ella has just never let _fear_ rule her.

(Though, maybe she should.)

* * *

 **A/N: Problem-solving + avoidance = not solving the problem, Ella. Alas, she's stubborn and has a troubled past and trust issues and she's used to being independent, so we get to sit back and watch as she makes terrible life decisions. It's great fun, see? And it's also illustrative of her burgeoning mental health issues.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	35. part 3: 15: voicemails

**fifteen**

 **voicemails**

* * *

Ella's phone rings, vibrating happily on her desk as the screen lights up - there's a picture of a bespectacled blond druid's profile as he frowns down at a cup of tea and beneath it the name FATHER CARLISLE, both a dig to his holier-than-thou magic rules and a nod to the place he holds in her life.

Held in her life? She would have to forgive him for letting her be second-best before she would ever call him _Dad_ again, but that's not the point.

The point is that he's calling _again_ and she's letting it go to voicemail _again_.

Raven doesn't speak up from her perch until after the screen goes dark and even then, she takes the time to swoop from the window to the desk, clicking her beak at the flash of blue-LED light indicating that Carlisle has left yet another message. "You will have to acknowledge him eventually. He doesn't cease to exist just because you want him to."

Ella sighs, pillowing her head on her folded arms. Studying is futile. "I know," she grumbles.

She looks around at her room with a critical eye. Messy, because she can't be bothered to actually put her clean laundry away and because dirty clothes really do belong on the floor. But aside from the mess, there's an _actual_ mess on the walls. All four sides of her room are riddled with the same sigil that she traced onto her bedframe. She's been having to recharge the sigils every morning, and then add new ones the next night because they're losing their efficacy.

And she's starting to lose sleep. Again.

The nightmares are back - and worse than before.

She can't hide from the hag forever. She can't hide from Carlisle forever, either, and it's now coming to the point where she is very, very reluctantly admitting that she _might_ need _some_ help.

She reaches for her phone, swallowing down that ever-present edge of agitation as she pulls up her phone log and all the messages she hasn't bothered to listen to.

 _VOICEMAIL: FATHER CARLISLE 11/04/2017_

 _"Ella, it's Carlisle - I'm just calling because you were awfully quiet at dinner last night with Esme and I. You seemed a million miles away. Is it school? I thought you were adjusting well, but maybe it's too soon. I understand, as alumni, that the Viridity campus can at times be rather, ah, lively. If it's too much too soon, we can always find a solution. Call me back, love."_

 _VOICEMAIL: FATHER CARLISLE 11/07/2017_

 _"Have you seen my text on moon-ritual alignment? I know, I know - it's my fault," he chuckles. "You're always telling me that my books are going to stage a revolution if I don't learn to organize them, but I'm honestly quite sure that I saw this one a few months ago. You read it, did it not? Might you have taken it to campus with you? Let me know!"_

 _VOICEMAIL: FATHER CARLISLE 11/09/2017_

 _"Just calling to let you know that I found the book. Or rather, Esme found the book. She seems to share your thoughts on my organizational skills and I believe I am becoming outnumbered on the matter. Will you be attending the town meeting tomorrow? I would like to see you, love."_

 _VOICEMAIL: FATHER CARLISLE 11/15/2017_

 _"Ella, I'm growing rather concerned. I've tried giving you the space you seem to want, but I'm worried about you, about this silence. Is there something going on? Is it school? Magic? Please, Ella, just call me back. That's all. I just want to hear your voice - I - I'm suddenly understanding the way fathers worry after daughters….Please, Ella, please call."_

 _VOICEMAIL: FATHER CARLISLE 11/16/2017_

 _"Ella - it's - well, you know who it is. I've asked Alice to look in on you - and I'm sorry if that's a breach of your privacy, love, but I couldn't think of anything else and I felt I had to do something to make sure you're okay - short of storming your room, of course, but then I've no doubt after speaking with Alice that you've warded that dorm to the gills and -" He breaks off, clearing his throat in the way he does when he's feeling particularly emotional. "Alice says that you're going to class and eating, but that she isn't sure - not knowing you so well, you see - that you're alright. And I am coming to realize that you're an adult and that I cannot make you call me back, so I will be pacified by the news that you haven't fallen in a ditch and give you the space you so desire. But dear girl, whatever it is, know that I could never love you more than I already do."_

 _VOICEMAIL: FATHER CARLISLE 11/19/2017_

 _"Ella, love." A heavy sigh. "I am beginning to understand that you do not wish to talk with me and while I won't understand why until you tell me, I am hoping that whatever I have done to upset you can be overlooked for Thanksgiving. This silly American holiday is a tradition I've been wanting to share with you…We're family and families share in holidays, they do. I've already bought a turkey…..Please come by the house on Thursday, Ella. I miss your company."_

Ella cradles her phone in her hands. She doesn't delete the messages. She does, however, pull up a new text message addressed to Carlisle and tap in a succinct response: _i'll be there._

Raven nips at her fingers when she places the phone face-down on the desk and Ella smiles grimly, feeling wrong-footed with her out-of-place residual irritation and a twist of guilt between her ribs for the obvious distress she's been causing Carlisle. Which, like, that isn't _right_ to put him through hell with all her distance just because she has trust issues and she thinks he's slighted her in some way.

And if she's being rational about it, she knows that he's not doing it on purpose, or anything.

But being rational about it so hard when she still feels that sting of betrayal, like she's being traded in for a better, less damaged model.

And there's something wrong with that thought, isn't there?

* * *

 **A/N: Character development is hard, harder still when your developing your character to have a mental disorder. But foster kids are 60% more likely to manifest a psychological disorder at some point in their lives, _so we're dealing with real issues_. And angst. Because angst.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	36. part 3: 16: thanks for giving a shit

**sixteen**

 **thanks for giving a shit**

* * *

Thanksgiving. She's never celebrated it, exactly. Oh sure, there was always the obligatory hand-print turkey art projects in elementary school and the cafeteria's best approximation of a turkey-potato-cranberry sauce lunch, but she doesn't count those. She doesn't count the overcrowded meals at the group homes or that one Thanksgiving where her foster father threw all of the ceramic bowls of food at the walls, followed by his beer, and then his poor wife, either, because those are miserable memories. And miserable memories don't belong with holiday memories.

And she's certainly not thankful that she has them.

Back before she was adopted, Carlisle had tried to have her released from the group home for the day so that they could go out for dinner - but that's not the way it works, really, and so it hadn't happened, much to their shared disappointment.

Which makes this - hand to her heart - the first actual Thanksgiving she and Carlisle have ever had.

And it's not even _just_ she and Carlisle. Of course not. She really, honestly didn't expect any differently, so she isn't surprised that Esme is in the kitchen with an apron on over her pretty chocolate-brown dress or that Alice is already setting the table by the time she shows up.

She's late, but nobody says anything about it. Carlisle's smile is just this side of _too much_ and she avoids his eye as she awkwardly unloads pecan and apple and cherry-rhubarb pie from the paper bag she carried all the way from Charmstone's lone bakery. Because it's, like, good manners and everything to bring dessert, right?

Right.

It's weird to feel like an outsider in her own house, but there it is. Not that Carlisle isn't happy to have her or that Esme isn't wholly welcoming, but that she doesn't know how she fits into this new picture that Carlisle's life has become. He gives her a tight, rib-squeezing hug and all she can think about the entire time is that Alice is watching and so is Esme and they know that she's been treating Carlisle like shit and surely they have _thoughts_ about that because he's theirs, too, and so she hugs him back just as tight. Desperately, even. And it doesn't make her feel better.

"Hey, uh, can I talk to you for a sec?" she asks under her breath, thinking that _right now_ is the best time to bite the bullet and just _tell_ him about the hag and the weird fluctuations of the ley lines and why it's like her emotions just aren't _right_ in her head anymore and-

"Dinner's ready," he tells her pensively. "Can it wait until after we eat?"

 _No_.

"Sure," she says instead.

Carlisle kisses her forehead, then goes to carve the turkey.

And Ella just closes her eyes for a moment, waiting for it all to be over.

They eat.

Predictably, Esme is a good cook - probably for the best, considering that Carlisle's skill in the kitchen extends about as far as a tea kettle. When she says this, framing it as a compliment, Esme smiles and launches on a thoughtful brainstorm about the changes she would make to the kitchen, something about the stove being too far away from the sink.

And Ella just - zones out, gone oddly numb as she shovels perfectly cooked sweet potatoes and green bean casserole into her mouth.

Alice neatly cuts her turkey across the table, swiping the meat through gravy, and injects wryly, "But isn't our kitchen bigger, Mom? Maybe instead of renovating Carlisle's, we should add a cabinet for his teas to ours."

"A very good thought, darling," Esme praises around a delicate sip of wine, pale green eyes landing on the druid at the other end of the table.

Carlisle blushes.

And all Ella can think is, _they want to cohabitate, so where does that leave me?_

The fork slips from her hand, clattering nosily against bone-white ceramic plates that definitely aren't Carlisle's, and her magic shivers from her, nearly upending the fanciful spread in a horrible mimicry of that terrifying Thanksgiving all those years ago. "Sorry," she gasps, pushing her chair back with a screech. "I can't do this."

Carlisle stands, brow furrowed behind his glasses. "Ella-"

She shakes off his hand reaching for her shoulder. "I _can't_ ," she repeats forcefully, fleeing from the kitchen and the terrible gaping of the banshees. She's on the porch before she realizes it, white-knuckling the railing and breathing deep, trying to understand what the _fuck_ is wrong with her that she can't even _act_ normal, anymore.

The door behind her opens, then closes. He clears his throat, a gentle alert to his presence that she doesn't need or even deserve. "Ella, what's wrong? It's not the food, is it? Because I'm sure we can just skip to the pies, we can, and-"

"It's not the _food_!" she interrupts harshly. She turns, gesturing wildly, grabbing onto the anger that's always there and pulling it to the surface. "It's all this- this _Stepford Wifey_ , perfect life thing you have going on and I'm screwing it up, Carlisle, I really am. I don't _belong_ here. I shouldn't have even come -"

"What are you talking about?" Carlisle steps forward in concern, only to be buffered by a strong wave of her uncontrolled magic, which presses against the house hard enough that the blueberry wood groans in protest.

The magician's glass on her ring is a dully, cloudy red.

"I don't know why you even bothered with me!" she yells, heat building behind her eyes. "Why adopt me, take me in? Because you felt like you had to? Fine, fine, you saved the poor little orphan, good job Saint Carlisle! But you don't need to feel obligated, anymore, okay? You have your real family, your real daughter, and you don't need me to take up space!"

"Ella, that's not - I would never-"

"I'm _not stupid_ ," she sneers meanly. "Nobody's ever really wanted me and you can stop pretending, now. You did your duty. So, thanks for giving a shit!"

She strides off the porch, crushing fallen leaves beneath her boots.

 _"Ella!"_

She doesn't look back to see Carlisle following her - instead, she waves her hand behind herself, a violent flush of wind rising in response, loud and howling and strong enough to keep _Carlisle away from her_.

Because she's spinning out of control and there are hot, angry, confused tears on her cheeks and _she's not safe_ \- just look at the magician's glass, that reading on her current temperament and frame of mind and state of her magic - and she shouldn't be around anyone.

Ella isn't looking where she is going. She's not paying attention. She crosses street to street, moving closer to the town, and then closer to the forest, walking aimlessly - and then running without intent, just the deep-seated need to get away.

There is a distant squawk of a bird, but she doesn't stop for Raven, either.

And then -

And then she takes a step forward just on the edge of the forest creeping into Charmstone and it's like being hit by a bolt of lightning. Like looking at a frozen moment in time, she sees the hag kneeling over a boulder marked in runes like _take_ and _drain_ \- and then the next moment, the hag is looking up at her - and then the next, Ella is shot through with a burst of magic not her own and it _hurts_ and the hag is saying something like, "I was waiting for the right moon phase, but there is no time like the present, is there, dearie? Hmm?"

Ella falters, knees buckling beneath her, and then she is on the ground, staring up at a pair of yellow-green eyes and a black-toothed smile with a vicious spell spilling from thin, cracked lips -

And then the world goes dark.

* * *

 **A/N: And in this chapter, we see that the subject is exhibiting abandonment issues, interpersonal relationship struggles, emotional outbursts centered on anger, dissociation, and impulsive decisions, all triggered by what most would consider "normal" circumstances. I won't say what it is - yet - but it's definitely a personality disorder. And the interesting thing about reading and writing a narrative with a character who has a personality? All her shit seems _totally justified,_ which is true to form for personality disorders.**

 **Also, a cliff hanger. #sorrynotsorry**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	37. part 3: 17: here in hell

**seventeen**

 **here in hell**

* * *

Her head _fucking_ aches when she wakes from the deep clutches of unconsciousness caused by malicious spellwork and what seems to be very mild blunt-force trauma, both of which are a very specific kind of bleak absence of the conscious mind. Nothing at all like falling asleep on cold medicine or taking an unexpected nap or even the satisfactory thrill of sleep from bone-deep exhaustion. It is simple blackness that is there one moment and gone the next, leaving in its place a staccato pounding as the brain rebels against a lingering sense of befuddled, miss-the-next-step sea change.

Even before she opens her eyes, she knows she's screwed. Like, utterly shit out of luck.

For one, her magic is - dampened. Muted. Somehow just out of her reach and weak enough that she feels an acute sense of panic when it does not respond as readily, as instinctively as it usually does. It rises weakly to her summon, as light as a moth on the cheek, and she is breathing heavily by the time she releases her tenuous hold over it. Her magic is, like, _snuffed out_ and just out of reach.

She's never, ever been without her magic - even when she didn't _know_ that it was magic.

(But it's not drained. See, because Ella _is_ magic, a living wellspring that might be more magic than human, like a walking and talking conduit of magic that can't be approximated by any other magic-user. But she knows - unequivocally and innately - that if her magic were drained, she would be dead. And seeing as she's currently building into a frothing rage, she's clearly alive.)

She can feel the heavy weight of chains on her wrists, on her ankles, and beneath the cloying layer of mold and dirt clogging her nose, there is a smoky scent that makes her dizzy. So on top of being kidnapped and chained up in what appears to be a basement - a good guess, considering she can _barely_ see in the grey darkness - she's without direct access to her magic _and_ she's being drugged by a stupidly tall votive candle placed just out of reach. The candle is just about the only thing she _can_ see, but a single flickering flame is by no means adequate lighting.

And if she can't see and she can't use her magic, the outlook on this little situation she's found herself in? Not good.

She sighs, her ribs protesting keenly - she knows the feeling well enough from childhood beatings to identify that particular pain as bruising, not breaks, though how they came to be that way is a mystery - and thumps her head against the rough cinderblock wall behind her. Then she winces, because _ow_.

In the back of her mind, she can almost _hear_ Carlisle at the start of last spring. _"There are three fundamentals of magic that you must master if you want any semblance of control. Usually, mastering these takes years because most magic users have to also learn how to find their magic within themselves and funnel that magic into casting cornerstone. You, however," he said with a wry smile. "You are a magician and have no such obstacle. You've been channeling magic all your life. Now, all you need to do is learn how to concentrate it to make meaningful spells."_

 _"Sounds easy," she'd decided confidently._

 _"For you it will be."_

And it was.

Ella zips through everything that Carlisle has taught her, everything she has read, as she tries to deduce what it is that's keeping her from using her magic to blast her way out of this place. There are really only a few options that would even conceivably be enough to lock any magical cogs, let alone _hers_.

Wards, the most basic of magical barriers created by runes and intent, able to be tailored in so many ways that it's perfectly plausible that someone had constructed a ward meant to keep her _magic_ locked inside? Possible, but unlikely. Ella was well-versed in wards, knew the ones used in Charmstone and erected her own - like the silencing one in her dorm - all the time, almost second nature. But then, a ward wouldn't be able to separate _her_ from connecting to her magic because that's simply not how they work. Wards are physical in a way that most magic just _isn't_.

Runes, then? The basic written language of magic, certainly capable of being used in wards and to power incantations, but not necessarily strong under their own power. And they were _so_ basic that they weren't really useful for anything except for communicating very simple ideas in magic - like her cooling runes at Carlisle's house over the summer. And she doesn't know of any rune that would prevent her from _grasping_ at her magic. Runes are too simplistic for a feat so _complicated_.

A sigil, maybe? Some kind of spell short-hand etched onto the chains that she can't see because it's too damn dark? More likely, though a sigil wouldn't last as long as a ward because they're temporary and have to be charged by magic routinely, or else they burn out, unlike wards, which usually tap into magical currents and behave like a self-sustaining battery. She has the innate sense that the hag had chained her up and hadn't been around in a few hours, which is far longer than any sigil would last.

Unless - unless _her_ blood was used somehow.

Ella draws her hands together, the slack on the chains just loose enough that she can easily cross her arms over her chest. Thinking quickly, she feels along the cuffs of the chain - there is no seam, which meant they had been put on with magic. She tries not to feel too disappointed. She hadn't expected the chains to have a lock on them that could be easily picked and they're tight enough around her wrists that every movement rubs her skin raw.

Ella presses her lips together. _No seams and no sigils on the chains. Must be on the skin, then_.

And there it is - carved right into her skin, from the back of her hand, around her wrist, and down her forearms. Careless cuts, deep in some places, paper thin in others. Messy. They are sigils, the likes of which Ella has never even glimpsed in one of Carlisle's ancient tomes. She tries to follow the sloping lines with her fingers, dried blood flaking off against her questing touch, her stomach rolling at the idea that such twisted magic had been _carved_ into her body.

The sigils feel hot to the touch, a brilliant contrast to how cold the rest of her skin is. Infection already setting in, then, or because of the active magic working to counter her natural magical response.

 _They'll scar,_ she thinks, a bit inanely. Who cares about scaring? Not Ella. If she cared about scaring, she wouldn't have sliced open her own skin as a means of emotional release while she'd been trapped in the foster system. The thing is, though, that there's a huge difference between willingly mutilating her own body and having it done _to_ her while she was helpless and unconscious.

She traces over the sigils sliced into her skin again, bile rising that she swallows back. Her mouth is dry and her eyes feel raw, heavy. Ella tries to think of how long she must have been out, but she can't really quantify the time.

She tucks her hands beneath her thighs, unwilling to touch the vile marks on her body anymore. She doesn't recognize the sigils. And it's no surprise, is it? Because of course Carlisle wouldn't have any magic _this_ dark in his overgrown collection - and she doesn't blame him.

Even without access to her magic and all the instinctual information she receives from it, the roughly traced marks on her skin _feel wrong_.

Like - like an oil spill in the ocean.

(She'll never be clean of this violation - if she lives, that is.)

Time passes. She doesn't know how long. Trying to stay calm - trying not to feel like a sitting duck, even though that's exactly what she is - trying not to think if anyone is looking for her or if Raven will be able to find her with her magic effectively set to "mute" - trying to not loose her mind, Ella resorts to counting. She'd heard it, somewhere, that prison inmates count when they're in solitary to keep track of the time and not, like, go insane.

She's definitely a prisoner right now. So she counts and stares at that dim stupid candle that is keeping her on just this side of complacent, her limbs heavy and her mind not as sharp as usual. One thousand. Two thousand. Three thousand. Four thousand.

Her ass is beyond numb and her back protesting something fierce from the unforgiving cement all around her by the time the candle flickers in a way that's much different than before. It grows brighter for a moment -

And then a creaking door opens overhead, a harsh yellow light illuminating what Ella previously could not see.

She's in a basement, alright, one that is populated by high stacks of moth-eaten cardboard boxes on either side. Above her is the underside of a moldy wooden staircase, which gives her major Harry Potter flashbacks that makes her feel just a bit hysterical. But that's _it_ , that's all there is; just boxes and chains and a druggy candle and Ella.

And the hag, of course, tromping down the stairs and displacing dust on top of Ella's head.

The hag's eyes are gleaming as she crosses in front of the candle to stand before Ella. Cracked lips spread into a sadistic smile as she takes in Ella's weakened state, the heavy chains keeping her tethered, the sigils and their dried tracks of blood all the way down her arms and staining her simple grey shirt.

Ella glares up at the hag, baring her teeth. "What the fuck have you done to me, you psychotic old crone?"

"My dear, do you not like your accommodations?" the hag rasps, her expression hardening meanly. "Tsk, tsk. And to think, you didn't protest at all earlier - well, of course you _couldn't_ , but haven't I been forgiving? You did break one of my stairs, you know. Or rather, the stair broke your fall. I'm offended that you aren't comfortable, dearie."

(And that explained the bruised ribs and the ache in her body that can't be explained by being knocked out by magic. Ella had been _pushed down the stairs_. She's lucky her neck isn't broken.)

"Fuck you!" she spits out.

The hag ignores her. "You have been terribly inconvenient, haven't you? You see too much, know too much. Nobody else even picked up on my siphoning the ley lines - but I had a feeling that you would notice, powerful little thing that you are." She pauses. "Well, you _were_ powerful. I've fixed that problem right up, I think. Do you like the work I did, hmm?"

The sigils itch and burn on her skin. "Oh, they're _fabulous_ ," she retorts. "Really, they'll be a great addition during swimsuit season."

The hag cackles. "Oh, dearie, you won't be around for swimming this summer - but you know that, of course. You've already guessed."

"Well, it's not like you're some great mastermind with a supremely complex plan, is it?"

The hag slaps her, twice. Ella tastes blood in her mouth from where her tooth cut the inside of her cheek. She swallows the iron-coppery taste down, glowering and rattling at the chains, not unlike a wild animal.

Licking her lips, the hag leans forward, papery-rough hand caressing her cheek gently. Her yellow-green eyes are downright greedy as she gazes at Ella. "Oh, dearie, you have no idea, do you? No matter. You've made all of this so terribly easy, haven't you, walking right into my path the way you did. A few days too soon, but that can't be helped."

Ella holds herself stone-still, refusing to give the hag the satisfaction of leaning away from that proprietary touch. "Too soon for what?"

"I suppose I _can_ tell you, can't I? Who are you going to tell?" the hag wonders out loud, finally removing her hand from Ella's face and stepping away, closer to the stairs, thankfully. "My dear, we have great plans on The Cold Moon. Great, great plans. You might not like them, but you're in no position to refuse, hmm?"

Ella doesn't respond - too busy wracking her brain for what the _hell_ The Cold Moon was and why the hag would find it so important.

The hag stares at her for another long moment, seemingly enjoying the silence. "You really are a troublesome child," she says finally. "Do try not to succumb to hypothermia before I've made use for you."

And then the hag leaves without another word, slamming the door above loudly, swiftly followed by a series of locks turning that she hadn't heard before.

She expels another deep sigh, thunking her head on the wall behind her.

"The cold moon," she mutters to the dim flame of the candle. "What the fuck."

* * *

 **A/N: Alright, here we go.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	38. part 3: 18: the dread of surviving

**eighteen**

 **the dread of surviving**

* * *

Time flies when there's nothing to do but stare at the surrounding darkness and try not to freeze to death. Except, really, time doesn't fly. It eeks on, slow and steady like sand through an hourglass, and it never stops. Just like Ella never stops fighting against her chains, pulling and twisting futilely whenever she can dredge up enough energy, until the skin beneath the iron cuffs breaks and bleeds and bruises. And even then, she still tries, weakly trying to find freedom, either with her out-of-reach magic or with her deteriorating physical strength.

(Her mind, though, is strong. And so is her rage. She'll never stop. She lets the anger consume her, if only to keep the embers of her heart alight.)

The cold is all-encompassing. The stupid basement - beneath the bookstore, she thinks, because she can't think of anywhere else the hag might spend her time uninterrupted - conducts cold in a way that is inevitable. Winter comes early in Charmstone and it doesn't stop coming just because Ella is in a bad place. She learns how to tell the nights from the days simply by the way the nights make her teeth chatter anew and because mid-day is warm enough that she no longer feels like she's blue in the skin.

She doesn't dare sleep at night, especially not when the shivering stops in favor of a molasses-heavy numbness, because she isn't _stupid_ and she knows the signs of hypothermia well. Of course, it's hard to find the will power to keep her eyes open during those times, especially because the hag doesn't seem to think Ella needs basic survival needs, like food. The water comes sporadically and Ella drinks it sparingly.

(It was humiliating enough to piss herself the first time - it's worse having to sit in her own cold urine and she doesn't even want to think about the health issues involved. The hag, though, had been fucking delighted to see Ella mess herself. Bitch.)

She isn't _sure_ , but she thinks the only reason she's surviving this hellish experience is because even with her magic blocked by the sigils carved into her skin - even then, her magic is _so strong_ that it's keeping her alive. Like the ultimate adrenaline rush working so far beneath the surface that she can't even feel it. But it is working.

Anybody else would be dead by now, just from cold exposure.

Not Ella.

Time, like cold, is consistent. But between the time and the cold, Ella is able to - distance herself from _herself_. There's her body and it's suffering, and then there's her mind and it's acclimating to the situation.

Ella was kidnapped by the hag on Thanksgiving, a full week before the first of December and thus a full week before the next full moon.

She doesn't know whether to count herself lucky that the full moon of December falls on the first day, or not. On the one hand, since the hag is waiting for the full moon, it means that Ella will get out of this goddamn basement soon; on the other hand, the hag was waiting for _this full moon_ and that meant Ella is getting out of the basement…and going somewhere else.

Either way she looks at it, it's a lose-lose situation.

(And now she has all this _time_ to think about all this shit that she _regrets_. And she does have regrets - Carlisle and the way she's been acting toward him when she knows it's not _really_ his fault and when she honestly is happy that he's getting his happily-ever-after. And Alice, because despite their animosity, they both need to be _trying_ for their mutual father-person. And Esme, because she needs to give the woman a chance. Peter, because she don't think anyone has told him he's a potential and because it kind of feels like _she_ should be warning him. And Anthony Masen - because whatever his deal is with her, with them, it needs a resolution.)

(Having regrets and not being able to do anything about them _sucks_.)

By the time her body has stopped registering hunger and she is quickly growing sick of her own thoughts, Ella finally remembers the significant of The Cold Moon. It was in a book she'd borrowed from Carlisle on a whim, some dusty old tome on the ritual significance of certain moon cycles. Every moon had a specific purpose in magic and the hag is absolutely right to be thrilled about having an opportunity to use The Cold Moon.

The Cold Moon, because of its proximity to the winter solstice, is pretty much a nirvana for magic-users - it's the moon cycle where the raw magic in the earth, the ley lines, is wide open. Which means that the hag, who as a subverted, twisted version of a witch and who has had her magic stunted, will have a once-a-year ability to work whatever ritual she's planning.

When Ella had first read about The Cold Moon, she'd been excited, too. It was a unique opportunity to get in touch with the natural magical currents and perform some pretty fantastic magic.

Now, all she feels is dread.

Because even though it's her magic keeping her alive, the hag is doing the bare minimum to keep Ella alive, too.

And all that really means is that the hag _needs_ Ella alive, however temporarily.

Which can't be good.

(Is anyone looking for her?)

* * *

 **A/N: Connecting the rising action to the actiony bits!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	39. part 3: 19: second star to the right

**nineteen**

 **second star to the right**

* * *

The hag comes for her right when the temperature in the basement begins to drop to the unbearable cold that marks nighttime. Long since has Ella's head drooped listlessly, slumped as she is on the wet cement, unable to feel her fingers and her toes - but she still glares will all her menace as the hag crouches in front of her.

The hag looks different this time. Gone is the dirty and tattered brown cloth draped over her withered body; now, the hag is dressed in what might pass for a robe in the darkest of black, her grey hair neatened enough that it's clear a comb has been used.

Still, Ella can't resist. "Clean up all you like, you old bitch. Even if anyone could overlook that unfortunate nose and your ignorance of toothpaste, your soul is too far gone to be redeemed-"

A knobby-boned hand reaches forward, grasps onto Ella's lank hair at the base of her neck, and uses the advantage to slam the side of Ella's face into the concrete. There's a terrible _crunch_ that Ella hears over the sudden bloodrush and auditory disorientation; her cheekbone, probably, cracked for sure. The unfamiliar heat blooming in her face immediately following her impact with the ground _burns_. There's blood in her mouth again, which she spits out with a nasty grin.

Goading, she slurs, "Oh, did I hurt your fucking feelings?"

The hag's thin lips pull away from her rotting teeth, yellow-green eyes blazing. "Oh, dearie, you've got a wicked mouth on you. I had hoped you would be a bit more agreeable by now, but I see that isn't the case." The hag pulls on her hair again as she stands, forcing Ella onto her knees with her neck held at an awkward angle. Then, the hag takes out a vial of a tar-like potion, smiling victoriously. "Good thing I've thought ahead, hmm? Now, be a good little girl and take your medicine."

Ella tries to struggle, throwing her weight backward and sealing her mouth closed, biting her lips together with her teeth until she bleeds. But the hag is stronger than Ella, even for as goddamn old as she is, and while she allows Ella to drop painfully onto her tailbone by releasing her hair, she is quick to introduce a vice-like grip to Ella's jaw. She squeezes her cheeks with one hand and covers Ella's nose with the other, depriving her of air and holding steady despite Ella's thrashing until there is no other option but for Ella to open her mouth-

The moment she does, the hag upends the vial into Ella's mouth, forcing the glass bottle between her lips to clink painfully against her teeth, still pinching her nose so that Ella has no choice but to swallow. She does, glowering, and spits whatever remains in her mouth at the hag's feet the moment she is released. It tastes _horrible_ , but familiar. Ella's no genius, or anything, but it isn't difficult to realize that the potion had been made with some of the same ingredients at the druggy candle still burning in the corner of the basement. Bitter berry and something ashy - mistletoe, maybe, didn't Carlisle warn her away from that? - and with a consistency of an oil slick. Her empty, shrunken stomach cramps up and bile rises in Ella's throat.

But before she can even think about puking, the world around her _warps_ \- like she's underwater and speeding as fast as a bullet at the same time, colors and scents and noises all blurs as far as she can tell, and all of it so dark. Like she's on the edge of passing out, but can't quite get there.

Ella is not really _with_ her body anymore. Oh, she can certainly _feel_ that she's too cold and too hungry and too injured, but it's all in the background. Separate. Easily overlooked in favor of the utter weightlessness in her limbs and the spinning, muted world overhead.

Are her eyes open? Closed?

It's dark for a long time and she drifts in the blurry darkness.

Until it isn't dark anymore - no.

No, now there is a fresh wash of ever-bright colors, so many of them tangling overhead and underfoot, linked to something important and immutable and _Ella is infinite_. She sees it all. She knows it all. She knows what this is.

It's her magician's sight come back to her - better than before. Oh, but she'd been so _blind_ , hadn't she? She only saw the lifelines and the auras and the ley lines, but she didn't know. She couldn't know. It's so much more than just a sense of someone's moods or what creature they are or where the power is localized. She can _follow_ the lifelines, touch them and feel along the cords, like a spider sensing prey in her nest. She knows how to use them - instinct that had been muddled up by everything else - it's so easy to _see_.

The brightness of the lifelines are blinding, but no two colors are exactly the same. And it is _so_ easy to pluck on a familiar calm blue and follow where it leads. She travels in this in-between state - or her mind does - _all that is Ella_ \- just…goes.

There's that limpid blue, half-coiled with the cool foggy grey of his soulmate. He's sick with worry, his lifeline thinning at the edges. _"She can't have just disappeared, Es! What if we - the pack - what if she can't be found? I've failed her in so many ways…."_

Something twists in Ella. Oh, right. _Regret_.

She doesn't like seeing the blue so blue, so pained. So she plucks at the lifeline, soothing the fraying edges absently before something else catches her attention. She barely registers the shock and then the sudden joy piercing through the blue lifeline before she has moved on.

The ley lines are burning too bright - going to burn out at this rate. Such a pity. The Charmstone ley lines are particularly stunning, especially the larger convergence at the university. Ella reaches toward the natural magical currents, then recoils - too hot to touch, too damaged to mend. They're all mixed up, all _wrong_. Clogged up and tangled and melting together as they err toward overheating. Burning out.

 _Someone needs to fix the ley lines._

And then she is drifting again, caught on another hook as her awareness moves further from her body.

Onward and away. She is Peter Pan, right, and following the lifelines stretching out endlessly over Charmstone is her Neverland. Where is her second star to the right?

He's gold - pure gold, molten and shining and so steady. Strong. Always so strong, isn't he? He has to be, he was born to _be_ strong. But all that gold is twisted up and snarled with agitation. The golden lifeline is bristling, high-strung and over-filled with tension. Without true thought, Ella drifts closer to it - to him - and pushes against the unyielding gold and there is a startling moment of utter silence before a supernova of energy is bursting forward.

She drifts along with the gold as it rushes, a bubble of warmth seeping into her chest -

 _Into her chest._

Ella's mind - her soul - slams back into her body with a crackle of pain - and a cackling laugh of the hag as her head lolls to the side -

And then there is darkness again.

* * *

 **A/N: So, it took me _a while_ to figure out how to give you guys a peek at what the hell is going on elsewhere without removing from Ella's POV and then I figured, hey! Let's drug her! Perfect solution, right? #thinkingcreatively**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	40. part 3: 20: the cold moon

**twenty**

 **the cold moon**

* * *

Ella wakes up because the hag has slapped her. The sudden wrench of her neck twisting all the way to the side paired with the explosion of pain as the hag's palm makes contact with her bruised cheekbone are the first sensations to greet her.

She hasn't been out for long.

Sometime between the hag drugging her and her magical astral projection - because _of course_ the potion _would_ induce an impromptu spirit walk - she has been taken out of the basement and brought out into the open air. Blearily, Ella squints up at the canopy of midnight-dark trees above her, illuminated only by the shine of the full moon, which is bright enough to eclipse the stars.

The hag has brought her out to the Charmstone forest.

Almost by force of habit, Ella tries to pull her body into a less vulnerable position, but weak as she is, she doesn't make much progress, not that the hag had given any allowances. Ella is still restrained, although this time, the heavy chains are pulled horizontally over her body, strapping her down to the frost-bitten ground with the kind of industrial bindings that are better fit for catching bears than imprisoning teenagers. The chains are so tight she almost can't breathe.

The hag is walking around, chanting as she waves burning herbs in the air, but Ella looks past her, holding onto her slippery consciousness as colors and lines bloom slowly in her line of sight. The lifelines are back, but they're more dull than she remembers - because she knows what they really look like now, or because her magic is finally growing weak from being locked down so tightly for a week? Hard to tell.

What isn't hard to tell is the shimmery deep purple dome overhead - a ward made of dark magic so thick she almost can't see the trees on the other side. That would be the power of The Cold Moon, then. Wards cast on any other day would still be translucent.

Fuck, that means the hag has already made _progress_ while Ella was out of it.

Honestly, she's still out of it. Sluggish. It takes _work_ to make her thoughts connect to each other. She likely has a concussion on top of everything else. Fabulous.

Ella tracks the hag as she moves around, but doesn't speak up until the hag unearths a pointy, positively _ancient_ athame from her dark robes. Something in her sharpens at the sight of the smoothly curved knife, the hilt embedded with glistening, highly-polished quartz. Ella sort of recognizes its construction, sees a familiar pattern in the way a hundred different strings of metal have been woven together to create the hilt - remarkably similar to her magician's glass foci ring, actually. Is the knife a foci? Certainly seems to be.

The hag bends over and begins pulling the blade through cold dirt. Ella isn't at a good vantage point to see what exactly it is she's drawing, but she'd put her money that the hag is etching the same sigils on her body, mimicking the design at a larger scale directly into the earth. She shudders at the thought of something that dark being exposed to the ley lines. Bad enough that _she's_ been exposed to them.

When the hag begins to circle around Ella, she takes a chance and clears her throat. "So, do I get to know what your psychotic plan is, or what?" The words are heavy on her tongue, her voice rasping with slow speech.

The hag clicks her tongue against her teeth. "Pity. I though you would have been silent for a while longer. My, but you are a strong little thing, aren't you?"

So Ella's magic _had_ burned through the potion. Part of her mind registers this with cunning glee - because while it's kind of useless information now with her magic still sealed up out of her voluntary reach, if she can just get a chance for involuntary magic or -

 _The magician's glass._

Surreptitiously, Ella glances down at her dominate hand, utterly relieved to find her foci ring still placed firmly on her middle finger. She hasn't taken it off for, like, seven months. Not even to shower or paint and it's still as flawless as before, the metal gleaming and the magician's glass unscratched. Taking it off had never crossed her mind - this ring is her source of control over her magic, the reason she can cast so easy and not have to worry about overpowering a spell. But in this situation, it's not really doing her much good, is it?

Ella stretches her thumb to the underside of her palm and begins to slowly push against the ring, gently turning and loosening it down to her first knuckle.

And then she says, "Obviously, you're doing a ritual with the ley lines. Right? Because you want to be restored back to your former glory or whatever? I mean, _why else_ would you be bothering with a set up this big? You'd need a lot of power to back up your spellwork."

The hag goes back to her task with a sigh that is almost resigned. "I suppose it doesn't matter if you know, now," she mutters as she draws the athame through the dirt, cutting easily like a warm knife through butter. "Dearie, you've got it half-right. I do want return to a form more befitting my excellence. The ley lines are an excellent start and The Cold Moon will place the power so easily at my fingertips. But I think you're forgetting something, hmm?"

Ella starts, then looks at the way _she_ is at the center of this ritual. Ella. Not the ley lines. Fuck. How could she miss something _that_ obvious? The potion is still wearing off, keeping her dull. She shakes her head, as if the action could clear it, when all it does is draw her attention back to how much pain her body is in. Gods, but she _hurts_.

The magician's glass ring catches at the end of her finger.

"Me," she says warily. Then scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Why the fuck do you need _me_ if you have the ley lines and the moon? What kind of ritual could possibly-"

The hag cackles, finishing the giant sigil in the ground, then rounding on Ella with a ghastly, wide-mouthed grin and eyes glowing with sadistic delight. The athame is still in her hand, oddly clean - spotless - for all the time it had been slicing through dirt. Ella's suspicions about the athame grow and she closes her fist over her ring, hiding it from view as she cringes away from the hag's sudden nearness.

"Oh, dearie, you really don't know, do you?"

"Obviously not," Ella grits out.

The hag draws the athame down the side of Ella's face, oh-so careful to not slice skin; the blade feels hot with magic. "Do you know what really makes magicians so special?"

"I'm guessing it's not the unlimited magic bit."

The knife slides down her neck, like a lover's caress. "Ah, but where does that unlimited magic come from? Surely you've wondered." The hag sits back on her knees, talking as if Ella isn't chained to the ground, which is more creepy than Ella would have thought. If it wasn't before, it's now abundantly clear that the hag is totally unhinged. "I know a bit about your past, you see. It was the first thing I did once I realized my luck of running across a magician - I had to be sure that you were the right _kind_ , dearie. That you came from the right stock. And do you know what I found?"

There is a war in Ella - revulsion that the hag had invaded her privacy, her sad orphan sob-story, and then a burning curiosity that grows brighter as her mind begins to sharpen. She shivers, not from the cold, but from the sense that something life-altering is about to be revealed. "What?" she finally asks, part of her wondering if she should even be entertaining this -

But then, she's not _just_ listening to the hag's classic villain speech, is she? She has the ring off; her mind is reconciling with her body in the aftereffects of the potion; and the lifelines crisscrossing her vision are brightening. She can afford to buy time. She can resist the impulse to insult and bitch if it slows down the hag's plan.

"The Order was after you!" the hag crows.

Ella blinks. "Uh, yeah. I already knew that, like."

"But do you know who The Order truly are?" The hag waits for Ella to shake her head and then she taps the athame twice against Ella's sternum. "Oh, dearie, they're The Order of Mordred, bound by timeless vows to enact revenge for their dark magician by hunting down the descendants of two other rather famous magicians of ages past. Maybe you've heard of them, hmm?"

The answer falls out of Ella's mouth numbly. "Merlin Emrys and Morgana le Fay." Because every magic-user - hell, everyone on the planet - has heard of the most famous magician of all time and the people associated with his legend.

The hag pats Ella on the head. "Good girl! You're smarter than you look. It's too bad I can't keep you around. I could learn to tolerate your company, I suppose, but your magic will be put to better use, dearie. I promise I won't let your sacrifice go to waste."

"Wait," Ella breathes as the hag makes to stand. She's desperate enough for answers she's been looking for that she doesn't even care about the source, anymore. "Wait, if the Order of Mordred is hunting magicians down and you needed the right - the right _stock_ \- then what am I? Who am I descended from?"

"Isn't it obvious? Hmm, I suppose not." The hag looks up at the moon, which has yet to reach the zenith. Then she draws the athame back up, the point of the blade tracing a half-circle beneath Ella's eye. "Did you know that you can tell a caster's magic simply by their eyes, hmm? Merlin, Morgana, and Mordred all were naturally inclined to certain magics. Mordred, of course, was a dark magician of the black arts and he had eyes like the moonless night. Merlin was notorious for his light magic and was golden-eyed and while many believe that Merlin was the most powerful magician of all time, even his enemy Mordred, they are all wrong," the hag says sharply. "All of them were so blind to the true power of neutrality - all except for Morgana le Fay, with eyes like starlight, and a caster of both light and dark magic. It's too bad she was so preoccupied with trying to maintain peace between Merlin and Mordred that none understand her true greatness. But her powers have lived on, even though the descendants of her spurned lover hunt her children down….

"So, dearie, you asked who you belong to?" the hag traces the knife-point underneath the other eye with a leer. "You, with these pale eyes? Why, you're a Fay. Delightful, hmm? And how lucky for me that the power belonging to the most powerful woman in the world will be transferred into _my_ veins. That's what the ritual is for, dearie. I want my power back and I want yours, too. Marvelous, hmm?"

Ella is _reeling_ with all of this information - legends that the hag speaks about as if they're true, as if she'd been there or at least read a first-hand account, when Ella had tried looking for the same information for weeks. Information that Carlisle knows? Maybe, maybe not.

And it's not exactly the time to be thinking about these revelations, because the hag is cackling again at Ella's speechlessness, standing and moving around the sigil again with the knife twirling in one hand. She lights a candle, then tilts it upside down until wax flows freely into the sigil carved into the ground; the wax glows a muted dark blue as it swiftly fills in the sigil.

Ella shifts her gaze upward. It's happening. The ritual is happening _now_ and she's not ready. She curls her fist tighter until the magician's glass is cutting into her palm, trying to sort her thoughts. She feels more like herself, now, but she's helpless - no magic and no way anybody is getting through a ward that thick, even if they are looking for her. Even with her magic, Ella doubts she would have an easy time dismantling a ward of that much dark magic.

Not for the first time, Ella realizes how utterly _fucked_ she is.

The hag moves to stand over Ella's body, then kneels over her with her knees on either side of Ella's hips. Athame in hand, she shifts the chains to the side, exposing the grisly, crusty sigils on the back of Ella's hand and forearm. "These are some of my best work, dearie," she says, taking the knife to Ella's skin and carving _more_ sigils connected to the first set, ignoring the scream that Ella traps between her tongue and teeth. Her lips spread for that black-toothed smile as she moves to the other arm, digging deeper to draw more blood this time as Ella thrashes uselessly beneath the chains. "Though, I can't take all the credit. This is Merlin's athame, you see, and so we have all of the best magic represented tonight. Nothing can go wrong."

Ella's chest is heaving, caught between pain and a sudden visceral, unmistakable rush.

The lifelines are bright and thriving - a warm coil is spreading from the core of her being, stretching and filling up all the spaces it had retreated from -

"You know, dearie, I think I might actually miss you," says the hag.

Ella's magic is back.

She does the first thing she can think of, releasing her hold on the magician's ring to give her the best possible chance, and then latching onto a silvery thread and tugging harshly - calling Raven to her -

A howl reaches up into the night -

"Don't worry," whispers the hag. "This will only hurt a tiny bit."

But it's all she has the chance to do, because in the next moment, the hag has thrust Merlin's athame right through Ella's chest - right into her heart - and she is chanting as blood spurts and pools and as Ella's throat clogs with iron-copper -

She's dying. Blood is spilling bright crimson from her mouth, from her chest, and the world narrows down to a pin-point of the abyss calling her home. Her heart stutters around the blade, breath stalled in her lungs, and she knows that _this_ is death. This endless serenity and the rush as she spirits toward the veil, a place where everything is good and right and she'll be without the torrent of her emotions and she'll be with her parents - finally. Death is so good. So _right_.

She's weightless, _free_ , and - and everything _hurts_.

Everything _hurts_? Death isn't supposed to mean pain, but there it is. Salted wounds and skin over glass and acid eating at her - pain, pain, pain, and no more peace -

It's the kind of pain that doesn't quit - ever-present, even in the dark spaces between slowing, injured heartbeats, even seeping into the dread void of rapidly-approaching unconsciousness. The kind of pain that cannot be escaped. The kind of pain that people don't talk about, because it's better to forget it exists than ever remember that it was felt.

The kind of pain that makes Ella _wail_ as her magic is released - arching silver-bright, white-hot and untamed away from her body, burning her skin and the air and the world around her. Like being zapped by lightning and pulled into the soul-suck of a blackhole all at the same time.

It's so much pain, but it's also _unspeakable_ pleasure - a pain that isn't pain - a release on a tightly-sealed valve -

The hag screeches and topples to the side.

Merlin's athame tumbles between her breasts, the knife still clean, the wound left behind healing in a flash-bang instant as Ella's magic rears up - so much more than she ever thought herself capable of and clearly much more than the hag had estimated. Her magic undoes all the damage inflicted by the past week, healing bruises and cracked bones and burning away the last of the potion. And then the magic moves outward, dismantling the chains holding her down, crumbling the earth where the hag's sigil had been, then _bursting_ against the thick purple ward with unrelenting pressure, popping it like a flimsy bubble.

 _The fucking irony_ , she thinks as the raw power of The Cold Moon rushes around her, through her. She has the sense that the natural magic is _choosing_ Ella over the hag and she's not exactly going to argue with that, seeing as how The Cold Moon just worked in tandem with her suddenly unbound magic - by the discarded foci ring and the altered sigils on her skin - to literally bring her back from the brink of death. Her teeth hurt with how much magic is thrumming in the atmosphere.

Ella sits up, panting and shaking as her magic returns to her. Strong as her unbound magic is, her body is still dehydrated and her head is spinning from the entire ordeal. She locks onto the hag, who is staring at her with an ashen face; Ella thrusts her hand forward, knocking the hag flat on her back with more force than she intended. She winces when her magic _burns_ her - when the rush of it sizzles in her veins.

And then a shadow passes overhead, Raven cawing a frantic greeting, which is quickly followed by the arrival of a dozen wolves stomping into the clearing. One familiar wolf wastes no time in darting forward with a savage growl, pouncing on the hag and ripping right into her without mercy.

Ella looks away from the gory sight. Looks down. Picks up her discarded foci ring, the magician's glass cool beneath her touch. And then she looks at her hands and her stomach rolls.

Her magic hadn't been able to heal everything. Not really.

The sigils carved inelegantly onto her body by the hag are still there, but they've changed. The harsh lines have smoothed out, been perfected until the sigils flow over her bronzed skin, the scars soft and silvery. They're pretty in an abstract sort of way, but Ella still feels disfigured by them. They are _ugly_ and evil and they've done something to her magic. First locked it up, and then the hag went and _unlocked_ it with the sigils, and now her own magic is burning her and -

"You alright?"

Ella looks up at Anthony Masen, who is casually wiping blood from his chin, his eyes a bright gold in his impassive face, lifeline trembling with barely-contained emotion. He's also stark naked, bisque skin flushed with exertion, moles standing in proud relief, toffee hair mussed beyond repair, and he doesn't seem to care. She thinks she might appreciate it more under different circumstances, because he's got a physique that Michelangelo would have wept at, but right now he's staring at her with his focused intensity, like he _knows_ everything that just happened -

He'd been the one to kill the hag. He'd relished it, she knows with absolute certainty.

She doesn't know how to say _thank-you for killing that evil old bitch_ \- can barely wrap her head around the fact that she mostly saved _herself_ \- and so she just nods in answer to her question, even though it's a lie. Is she _alright_? No, not really. Not at all, actually.

"I want to go home," Ella says and only when she hears the broken edge to her voice does she realize that she's been crying.

And like that time in the forest all those months ago, Anthony doesn't seem to mind at all that she cries all over him, face buried against the solid, warm wall of his pectorals as his arms carefully encircle her.

He takes her home, just like she asked.

* * *

 **A/N: PHEW. This got _bigger than I planned_. I just couldn't find a good place to break it in half, but chapters this size are a rarity for this story! **

**Alright, lovelies, I believe a lot of your questions should be answered, right? We solved the _Fay is fey_ riddle, which was a biggie for this arc, but the whole weight of all the legends introduced in this chapter continue in the larger plot.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	41. part 3: 21: does it ever end

**twenty-one**

 **does it ever end**

* * *

In a daze, she walks through the streets of Charmstone surrounded by a literal pack of wolves, save Anthony who does not shift back. She doesn't know why, but she takes comfort in his silent presence. It's dark, far past midnight; the town is quiet, full of sleeping people and closed-up shops.

The ley lines are not silent, but neither are they screaming. The natural currents have been extremely disrupted. Only time will tell if they will reset themselves naturally, or if they will need a helping hand. She wonders if she might be asked to do it - wonders if she'll be able to bring herself to.

Somehow, she manages to put one foot in front of the other, and when it comes time to choose between the road that will take her to Viridity and a road that will take her to Carlisle's house, she does not hesitate. Trudges forward, both boneless with fading adrenaline and pervasive exhaustion.

Keeps walking until a blueberry house is in front of her, until the werewolves stop on the street, until she is wrapped up in Carlisle's arms and he is tearfully clutching her close, going on about how he thought he'd lost her and if she's okay and that he could feel her magic and that he has tea, does she want tea?

"I'm glad you're safe," he finishes, a whisper into the crown of her head.

And Ella - she's safe, but doesn't feel safe. It hasn't quite sunken in, yet.

She'd watched someone be killed tonight. Facilitated it, even. Does she feel bad about it? Should she?

(What does it mean that she wishes the hag had suffered more?)

She pulls back, turns to look at the remaining wolves on the street; less than half, now, the rest have probably gone back home. Anthony is still shifted human, naked skin and intent gaze, and to him she says, "Thanks."

(Because she owes him - and his pack - her life, doesn't she?)

He inclines his chin for a brief moment. And then so smooth it's almost beautiful to watch, he shifts into his wolf form, a fluid transition of skin to fur and two legs to four and flashing amber-green eyes. He lopes away, followed by the other wolves.

(She doesn't know what to make of his silence.)

"Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?"

Subdued, Ella follows Carlisle into the house. She isn't surprised to find Esme and Alice in the living room, though she is a bit shocked when Esme closes her china-white hands over her shoulders and brings her close enough to hug. Ella stands still in the embrace. She can count on one hand the people who have ever hugged her as a means of affection; she doesn't know what to do, here, other than stare over Esme's shoulder at Alice. Alice, who doesn't hug her when she is released, but offers a strained, "Glad you're okay."

(Alice looks _freaked out_. It takes Ella a moment to realize it's probably because the banshees felt Ella die, and then come back to life. Banshees would know that sort of thing.)

(Oh Gods, she died.)

Ella shakes her head, then, brow furrowing as she looks up to Carlisle. "Did you know?"

Carlisle frowns. "Know what, love?"

"About magicians," Ella says. But she can see that he's not quite understanding what she's getting at, so she adds, "And The Order being…you know, The Order of Mordred…"

Carlisle is still confused, a reflection clear in his lifeline. "Ella, love, what are you talking about?"

"Nothing," she murmurs, dropping her eyes to avoid his searching gaze. Carlisle didn't know about The Order; he probably doesn't know about the bloodline of magicians. He's as ignorant as she is. Wherever the hag was getting her information, it's apparently very privileged. "It's nothing. I…You have blood on your shirt."

Carlisle is pale when he responds to her confused observation, unbothered by the stain of crimson clinging to the front of his blue button-down. "Why don't you go for a bath, and when you're done, I'll bring up some tea, yeah?"

"Yeah. Okay."

Ella goes upstairs, closes the bathroom door behind her. Stares at herself in the mirror. _Oh_. The blood came from her - she's positively soaked in her own blood, the bright red starting to darken into tacky wetness from her collarbone all the way down to her hips and around her back, all starting from one vertical hole over her heart. From that knife being slammed - _thud_ \- down into her body.

(She vividly remembers gagging on her blood - that bitter, rich, salty taste thick on her tongue - drowning in it, and now looks at the stains left on her skin around her mouth, pooled in the hollow of her throat, in her hair.)

(How funny that she'd been part of the walking dead on Halloween - and now, even though she's all magically healed up, she technically is one. She could cry at the irony if she had any tears left.)

Mechanically, Ella strips the clothes from her body, the shirt landing on the tiled floor with a _splat_ that she forcibly ignores as she turns on the tap. Hot water. Hottest it can go. She's so cold. It's no wonder, she thinks as she watches her reflection in the slow-fogging mirror. She's lost a lot of weight over the past week. Weight that she couldn't really stand to lose in the first place. She's always been thin, had a fast metabolism and bad eating habits, but this is something else; this is skin and atrophy and sharp bones jutting out. Any body fat she'd had had been burned off, either by her body trying to survive near-constant threats of hypothermia or by the sheer magnitude demand of energy required for the amount of magic she channeled earlier.

She's still holding the foci ring and realizing this, she uncurls the tight clench of her fingers, dropping the magician's glass onto the bathroom counter. She frowns down at it for a long moment.

Ella forces herself to stand beneath the scalding water, watching the swirl of red-brown-black go down the drain, bubbling up around her toes. It's a transfixing sight, one that she can't look away from until the water is running clear and her skin is a blistering red. Only then does she reach for the soap, scrubbing at her hair and body with her nails, trying to feel clean. To feel _right_.

She spends a long time scratching at the sigils carved into her skin, growing more frantic as her nails only succeed in scraping layers of skin off and stinging under the hot water. There's a hot pulse in her chest, a leaden weight as her magic expands again, rising up in her blood. The tiles crack in the shower, lights flickering - and Ella holds her breath, counting in her head. Reels herself back in.

Ella hisses through her teeth as she dries off, her skin over-sensitive from the burning water, fingers and toes prickling painfully with the introduction of heat to her system. She half-heartedly dries off, then reaches forward to wipe the fog from the mirror, which has cracked at the corners.

She stifles a scream, stumbling back against the wall -

 _Her eyes are silver_.

Set in the frame of her dark lashes and red-flushed bronze skin, the silver is especially arresting. Unnatural. The eyes of a Fay, staring right back at her. And her eyes - they'd always been pale, a grey-blue-green like seaglass, a point of interest in a face made of interesting up-turned angles and over-plush lips. But the _silver_ \- starlight, just like the hag said - is a sure sign that she's been changed irrevocably.

She glares at the swirling sigils on her arms and hands - pretty and ugly and powerful - and grits her teeth. Stubbornly shoves the magician's glass ring over her middle finger of her dominant hand, feeling something settle very, very slightly inside.

Just enough to get through the night, but it's more than obvious that one foci ring isn't going to be enough anymore.

Ella dresses in long-sleeves and leggings, resolutely covering as much of her body as she can. It doesn't quite feel like her body, right now. Maybe because of the ritual. Maybe because she came back from the dead. Maybe because of the sigils. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Maybe it doesn't matter _why_.

Carlisle comes up with the promised tea, a combination of lavender and chamomile and his familiar druidic magic and honey. He gives her the cup and presses a kiss to her forehead and promises that he's just a shout away. Swears to Ella that he's _here for her_. Whatever she needs.

"I think…I need to be alone," she tells him.

And it's to Carlisle's credit that he's not offended. He understands. Ella is - complicated. She's never _had_ anyone and her first response will always be distance, especially when she's visibly upset. And she knows he knows this. In light of recent events, she can't find it in herself to blame him for being obtuse about her abandonment-issue angst before - not when she was hiding how bothered she was about the whole thing.

Honesty works two ways. And Ella has been lying a lot. Another regret.

Carlisle doesn't close her bedroom door when he goes, just leaves it cracked so a sliver of light from the hallway can cut across the bed. Her shoulders relax at this. She drinks the tea, chasing the sweet tang on her tongue and sits on the bed, staring at nothing.

If she's still enough, she can feel the world spinning on its axis and she's spinning with it.

"You are different," Raven's orotund voice says.

Ella looks up as her familiar swoops to the foot of her bed. "I didn't hear you come in," she mutters. The same charm are on these windows as the windows of her dorm at Red Lily Hall, but she still should have heard the flutter of feathers. Raven isn't exactly a small bird. She looks down at the magician's glass on her finger, then at the slow-rising sun beyond the trees, dying the sky pale ocher and rose. "Does it ever end, Raven?"

"Does what ever end?"

"This - I don't know. The unrest. The turbulence. The...I don't know. I really don't. I don't feel right."

"Your magic has changed. Your soul has been altered."

Ella lays back, staring up at the ceiling. Exhaustion is pulling at her edges. "Nothing is going to be the same again."

(If only she really knew.)

* * *

 **A/N: You didn't think it was over, did you?**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	42. part 3: interlude

**interlude**

* * *

She is not the same girl he knew.

Nothing about her is the _exact_ same and he doesn't know how to describe it, really, and that's confusing. Because she has the same citrus-tang to the on-coming electric storm in her scent, the same golden-bronzed skin pulled over heart-shatteringly delicate bones, the same pattern to her heartbeats. The same lips. It's all very familiar, so much so that he aches when he looks at her - because familiar is not the same, even though she looks the same age. Not really.

She is _not the same_. There is none of the hawkish perception in her gaze, that ready-edge line to her shoulders that spoke to her unbreakable will, her unshakeable determination. None of the unflappable charisma rolling off her very energy, in every movement she makes. All the strength and confidence is still buried beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.

She's not like he remembers. The same girl but not the same girl.

But then, she told him that she wouldn't be. Not yet.

(And all he ever needs for proof is this: she doesn't recognize him.)

The deep canyon in his chest, a space carved out just for her, just because she changed him in ways he still doesn't understand, is still dark. What had she said before? That loss is a great crater deep inside, burned by the raging fire of a fallen meteor, and that loss will always hurt - until, eventually, that crater is filled up with new memories, with life and time. Loss is a slow-healing crater. But she hadn't left a mere crater in him when she disappeared - when she went back to where she came from, wherever, whenever that is. No, she'd left a goddamn canyon, a vast chasm of bleakness that he hasn't been able to reconcile for _two years_.

But tonight -

He'd gotten a glimpse of the girl she would be. The woman, really, that she is becoming. Covered in her own blood and starlight-silver shining from her eyes and the thick tension of her magic ebbing everywhere. The acrid scent of her pain and fear, anger always layered right beneath the surface. She looked lost. Frail in a way he can't remember her being.

(She's so small, but he can't think of her that way - she seems to take up so much space in him, in the world, that it's almost inconceivable that she's just a wisp of a thing.)

He understands her better, now. She hadn't told him that he would bear witness to any of this and he's glad for it. Really.

His enigma is unfolding and forming right before his eyes.

He goes back to the clearing where her blood is still thick in the air, thicker still on the ground. His nostrils flare, jaw working tightly as he paces over the crumbling earth - over the destruction she left in the wake of her magic. A glint of metal in the dawn light catches his eye and he crouches down, palming the hilt of the knife with a grim smile.

Merlin's athame, she'd called it all those years ago when he'd asked about it. He's never thought of it as the great Merlin's though. Only as _her_ knife.

He lifts the athame to eye-level, exhaling heavily.

And then he wonders how she had the knife _then_ if he has it _now_. (Does he give it to her? Does she take it?)

Wonders what the _hell_ she did back then to make everything so confusing at this very moment.

"Ella," Anthony Masen says out loud. It's an epitaph, a benediction, a prayer - it's two years worth of grief and anger and his inner wolf pacing impatiently, all rolled up into one word, one name, one sound that keeps his sanity intact. He sighs and to the empty clearing asks, "When are you coming back?"

* * *

 **A/N: Just going to drop that right here. *big smiles* This is the end of Part 3 officially. Onward to Part 4. Which. Honestly, heed this warning: you're not going to like a lot of it. For reasons. Just remember that I've planned it pretty short so it will be over quickly and it's absolutely vital for character and plot development.**

 **Alright, so I've managed to sprain my wrist and all that really means for you guys is that I probably won't be updating everyday, because I can't type as fast or for as long as I normally do. Apologies!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	43. part 4: 1: tea cures all ills

**BLANKET DISCLAIMER FOR PART FOUR: Will contain mood swings, character-typical avoidance tactics, substance abuse, and promiscuous behaviors.**

* * *

 **PART FOUR**

* * *

 **one**

 **tea cures all ills**

* * *

After a solid five days of drinking it, Ella has come to the conclusion that she fucking hates the tea steaming in a mug on the counter before her.

Magical, druidic cure-all tea or not, the taste is swiftly becoming repulsive to her - not because it's bad, because it tastes of strong peppermint, thistle, echinacea, along with a healthy dose of raw magic, which zings pleasantly down the throat when swallowed. The tea is good, leagues better than that vile potion the hag forced down her throat, and it _does_ make her feel better. Healthier. Color has returned to her complexion and she has more energy - too much, maybe - but for the love of Christ! She's been drinking the fucking tea morning, noon, and night for almost a week and it's getting old.

(It's certainly contributing to the bird-in-a-cage feeling pressing down on her, because this is just _one more_ requirement put on her when all she really wants is to just - go. Lose herself. Which she can't do because all that carefully wrought control over her magic with the use of the ring and runes? All good for nothing now; the magician's glass only barely contains her rapid-response emotional outbursts and the face of the ring is constantly revolving between a bitter black and cloudy red -

(The magician's glass isn't in synch with her, anymore. It's almost a perfunctory accessory for how useful it is in the wake of the hag's ritual. Another stressor on top of everything else in her recovery. Her only hope for containing her volatile magic is to remain dispassionate, or failing that, directing her anger inward and absorbing the magical backlash.)

Under Carlisle's watchful (read: worried) eyes, Ella drinks to damn tea, nose wrinkled in distaste as she swallows in large gulps. The liquid sloshes in her stomach, almost uncomfortable until Carlisle pushes scrambled eggs across the countertop. She sighs in relief, digging into solid food with relish. There's only so far Carlisle's weird digestive biscuits and apple slices can take her now that her stomach is recovering - hunger pangs are finally coming back and she enjoys the simple, uncomplicated pleasure of sating the needs of her body.

Carlisle pours another cup of tea for her. She chews and suppresses a grimace. Magic tea, curing her ills for the foreseeable future.

(Not _all_ ills, though. The burn of her magic through her bloodstream, the silvery scars wrapped around her arms and the top of her hands - those won't be going away any time soon. Carlisle had examined the sigils while she pointedly looked away, but he'd been stumped by them. _Ancient_ , he'd declared. _Permanent_ , she'd lamented, still trying to figure out what they did to her, exactly.

Druids are scholars and _much_ better than any doctor. They're all about homeopathic remedies. And why shouldn't they be? They have enough magic that homeopathic practices done right get better results than most modern medicine. She hasn't bitched at Carlisle for that exact reason.

He's making her better in the best way he knows how.

Unfortunately, it includes talking, because now that Carlisle's eyes have opened to how much their lack of communication caused such major problems, he's all about _gabbing_. He's been treading around the subject for days and inevitably, every time he presents the magic tea that is slowly restoring Ella's equilibrium, he asks the same question.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She's mildly impressed by how long he waited this time. Still, her answer is the same. "No," she says flatly. "I'm fine."

Because, _hell no_ she's not going to talk about it. She doesn't even want to think about it. And so she's doing what she does best - evade and avoid. Her dreams aren't exactly peaceful right now; she'll be damned if Carlisle makes her bear her soul about the whole ordeal while she's awake, too. Carlisle means well, but he's been _hovering_ and Ella isn't dealing well with feeling like she's under surveillance. Like Carlisle is just waiting for her to freak out or level the house with a random burst of blistering magic.

"Ella-"

She keeps her eyes trained downward. Doesn't want to look at him for reasons she's not going to acknowledge. "Do you think I'm fixed up enough? Like, can I go, now? The tea has done its job and the hag is gone, so."

He sighs; she can just imagine the pinch between his brows. "Ella, I'm not sure -"

"I really want to go back to school." It's a flimsy reason; it's not even half true. What she really wants is to lose herself in something, in anything, just so she doesn't have to _think_. About anything.

Carlisle is silent.

Ella pushes her advantage. "I've been missing class and work - and you know how lucky I was to get that job? I mean, I have a good excuse and I'm owed some time off, but still. Finals are coming up. I should be at school." She pauses, letting the weight of importance hang heavy on her next words. "I just want things to go back to normal."

It's manipulation and she knows it. Ella is self-aware enough to know that she's pushing him away, creating distance because it's easier and it's a habit and it's what she's most comfortable with even if it does more harm than good. She even feels a bit guilty about it, because Carlisle immediately caves.

Relief, strange and overwhelming. Not happiness, but a weight lifted off her mind.

She doesn't want to be reigned in right now.

Can't bear another moment of it.

Carlisle lets her go, driving her back to Red Lily Hall with a deeply uncertain frown on his face.

And Ella relishes the freedom - however small, however false - because it is freedom she hasn't had in almost two weeks.

Freedom she wants to get lost in.

* * *

 **A/N: I'm back! Kind of! I've spent the last two days typing mostly with one hand, so there is some backlog for this arc of the story just in case and the chapters are _short_. It's less than 10 chapters and is important to the rest of the story. Take the disclaimer at the top at heart for the next few chapters if you have triggers or anything. Our heroine will be doing things that we will not like or agree with, but people cope very differently and this character doesn't do depression like canon-typical Bella. (Do any of mine?)**

 **Hang on for the ride. Writing this subject matter is new to me because I'm, like, the most straight-laced person in the _world_. I got half-drunk one time at a wedding reception and I ruined the possibility of a raging hangover by responsibly hydrating and even though I'm a "stress smoker", I'm so even-keeled that it's only a few a month. So. New territory! Yay~~~**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	44. part 4: 2: water to whiskey

**two**

 **water to whiskey**

* * *

Ella wakes from a nightmare to see the walls of her room fissuring beneath the enormous pressure of her magic manifesting mid-terror. Mouth dry and sweat damp on her brow, she pulls her magic back in ruthlessly, lip curling at the burn as it recedes.

The nightmares aren't the same as they were before. Those were indistinct; these are absurdly specific. The hag is dead, her throat ripped out and her remains burned in the clearing by Carlisle in an effort to cleanse the area of dark magic, but she's still giving Ella problems.

 _Old bitch_ , she thinks disgruntledly. Ella takes a few calming breaths, then rises from her bed. She's not as tired as she probably should be - Carlisle had insisted she stay on the tea regimen until further notice, which is for the best all things considered - but she is fuzzy at the edges. She can't remember what rune it is that would best fix the damage to her walls.

A rune would be really helpful right about now. She can only imagine what Alice will say if she catches onto the destruction Ella's room is going though each night.

She shakes her head. "Screw it," she says to Raven, who has been watching her with dark eyes ever since Ella woke with a scream strangled in her throat, the phantom-sensation of a knife piercing her heart still vivid.

Ella holds her hands out at her sides, palms facing the room, and directs her will through her magic - something she hasn't done for seven months, not since she learned how to direct her will with actual spells and runes. It's easy though, like muscle memory -

But _fuck_ , it hurts. Magic _hurts_ to perform, a singular sort of burn that is hot and cold at the same time, crawling through her blood and lingering over the magician's glass. She presses her lips together as the walls fix themselves, as her room rights itself from all the damage the past few days of her nighttime wonders have put it through.

Bile is rising in her throat from the pain by the time it's done and she drops her hands to the sides, palms slapping against her thighs. She swallows it back.

"Your magical resonance has changed, Ella, just as your soul has transformed. You have seen the other side of the veil and come back. That leaves a mark," Raven tells her calmly.

Ella's head snaps up. "Wait. You know what these are? You can - What do they do?" _What did she do to me_?

"The magic is very old, but yes, I understand the purpose of the sigils." Raven hops from the windowsill to the bed, carefully taking the fabric of Ella's long-sleeved shirt and pulling it back. Ella doesn't look down, but she can feel Raven's feathers brushing against her skin as she explains. "From the back of your hand and around the underside of your forearm are sigils that focus on creating a dam for your magic, for your ability to cast. This one here is specific spell directed to the core of your magic to put a stopper at the most focal point. The others, however, the sigils over the top of your arm and connected - _these_ , right here - are in opposition to the dam. Instead of limiting your magic, these sigils are designed to encourage greater power, a sort of expansion to your magical core." Raven's beak presses at the mid-point of her forearm, right over a chain of circular sigils which grow from small to large as they move toward her elbow. "With this sigil working as a bridge between the two, the functions are linked, giving preference to the latter spells. In essence, by first locking and then unlocking your magic, the sigils create a constant overflow on your wellspring. The first sigils now act as a minimum threshold for your baseline of power instead of a dam, while the second sigils and the link ensure you have an unlimited draw. If you wanted to, you could pull magic directly from the ley lines, perhaps even from other beings if you ever required more energy. In all honesty, these sigils are quite extraordinary…"

"That's bullshit! If that were true, then why does magic _hurt_? It's never hurt before and it honestly sucks that it does now. Magic is…it's like the only thing that kept me alright for so long, and now it's just…" she trails off, unsure of what her magic _is just_ like now. Fucked up, for sure.

"You are unbound. The way you do magic now - as I'm sure you've already noticed - will be more about intent and emotions than how the druid trained you. Just as you were before, but without the crutch of templates to follow and uncertainty of your power. I believe you will find that a knowledge of runic theory will be less important, now, unless you are performing very specific or long-lasting spells. You have grown too powerful to be coloring within the runic lines. All of your internal magical pathways blown wide open and it will take time for your body to grow accustomed to this change - it was this change, after all, that brought you back to life. Your life is…in defiance of the natural balance, which magic can sense in simple terms."

"I've been tainted," Ella spits, thinking of the sigils she still can't stand to look at, a hot boil of rage rising inside - she pulls her sleeve down, clenches her hands, nails digging into palms, to stave off the urge to release the emotional surge of magic.

"The sigils you bear are not cursed," Raven says.

Ella grimaces. "No, I'm just a freak of nature."

Raven clicks her beak, a chiding sound. "You have become neutral. A true Fay, with both light and dark magic. Tainted or not, your magical pathways will adapt, just as you will….After all, magic knows all and it would not have allowed the veil to be pierced to drag your soul back had it not already sensed that you have a great capacity locked within you."

Ella starts at that bit of information. She's not sure how to take it - that magic itself had brought her back because it already knew she would be able to roll with dark magic just as easily as light magic.

(Inexplicably, she thinks of the redcaps, how she hadn't had any hesitation in methodically killing them; then, she thinks of the hag, how she wishes she would have suffered more for what she put Ella through. And yeah, maybe magic is right.)

"And what a great capacity it is - quite possibly, you can change the very fabric of reality at your whim. Space and time, life and death…."

"That's too much. That isn't -" Ella shakes her head. There are all sorts of long, complicated spells for the kinds of things that Raven is talking about, the type of magic that takes years to learn how to cast and that require specific moon cycles and ingredients and leap years and - And here Raven is, outright telling Ella that she probably won't even need those spells.

(How _fucked up_ is that? Ella is mutilated and then killed and then brought back to life by magic - actual Magic, like Magic itself, what the hell - and her reward for surviving is….she can't even wrap her head around it. Nothing about any of this seems real.)

"You have always been magic, a wellspring full of magical ability. But now, Ella, because of those sigils, you have become so much more than a magician-"

Her stomach drops so quickly she feels dizzy, the information overload slotting up neatly with a resurgence of anger - _anger,_ because it isn't fear this time. She's mad. Indignant. Frustrated by all of this _stuff_ that she didn't _ask for in the first place_.

And now she's not even a magician? She's _more_ than a magician? That's not - it isn't _right_. Being a magician has been such a large part of her identity, the reason for her saving grace, and the hag had finally put pieces together that Ella hadn't even known she was missing. But the hag had also made her _not_ a magician. Or Magic had done that. She doesn't know - she doesn't even know what she is now, let alone _who_ she should be or how she should act or -

"I'm thirsty," she says abruptly.

Raven appears skeptical, for as much as a bird can have an expression, which is to say not very much at all but Raven manages to pull it off.

Ella goes down to the kitchen on the common floor instead of giving into the urge to yell at her familiar out of irritation that Raven doesn't deserve. But of course, the kitchen isn't empty. Bree is there, rummaging through the refrigerator without much success, and she turns immediately to Ella with wide eyes.

"Oh, my God," she says. "You're here? You're here. I can't believe - no, wait." Bree shakes her head, letting the refrigerator door fall closed as she steps closer. "I heard about all that happened. I mean, obviously I did, but not from - it was Peter who told me, but he told me before anyone put two and two together. I didn't believe him at first when he came to be about a hag that you two were researching, but then it came out that you were missing and nobody could get a lock on you - not even the pack could catch your scent, so it had to be magic, right - but Peter _was so sure_ that it was the hag. He annoyed me until I took him to Mom and that's - like, I mean, _you're here_."

"Guess I owe him," Ella says, turning on the tap and filling a glass with water. She sips from it, letting the bland mineral taste clean the icky taste from her mouth.

"You're probably tired of hearing this," Bree starts, much more reserved than she normally is. "But…how are you? Because you look like shit."

"I'm _fine_ ," she snaps. Ella puts the glass down, curling her fingers over the edge of the counter as she drops her head. Dark hair spills forward, obscuring her face.

"Okay, no need to bite my head off. I was just asking," Bree mutters.

Ella stares at the glass of water.

She doesn't want water. It's too plain, too normal, too _safe_.

And so she doesn't think twice about it when she closes her hands over the glass and does The Jesus Thing - turning water to wine. Or rather, water into whiskey. Clear liquid swirls with a sear in her veins until it is a dark amber, the scent of alcohol sharp in her nose.

 _How's that for changing reality at my whim_?

"Did you just…?"

"Yes, I did," Ella answers shortly, examining her handiwork.

And then she drains the glass.

(Getting drunk is objectively _awesome_ because every awful feeling rolling through her is dulled down and she _finally_ doesn't have to think.)

(She's fine being not fine.)

* * *

 **A/N: Don't mind me, I'm just setting up some things for later use in other arcs...**

 **Speaking of, to you I pose a question: If you were given unlimited power, the ability to cast magic based entirely on will and intent, would you feel overwhelmed? Frightened? Powerful? I think personally I wouldn't know what to do it it, so I guess it's good that these powers aren't real. I always think it's an interesting conundrum, though. Like, you overpower a character and they're just doing what the fuck ever, right? But what if they were unlimited in power, but limited in other ways - like fear of what they've become or morality? Or what if that morality was decidedly grey? What then? Unlimited power is - I think - only as good as the way it is used.**

 **If anyone is wondering, Ella's powers are based on a fusion between theories on probability manipulation and...the powers of Lucky Charms. (Seriously.)**

 **(Also, SOMEONE - not saying who - but SOMEONE made a correct guess about something! Kudos!)**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	45. part 4: 3: imperfect solutions

**three**

 **imperfect solutions**

* * *

Ella is chasing a feeling - or rather, an absence of feeling. The dead-weight heavy sleep she gets after getting sloshed at night is quickly losing its novelty. Not because the lack of nightmares is a bad thing, but because that creeping sense of too-closed-in walls and the breathless panic around her neck like an albatross is beginning to find her in the daylight hours. There are shadows of memories chasing her and they will not let her go, not unless she's losing herself in some kind of oblivion.

However, it just so happens that as she is striding across the courtyard with a scowl slashed across her face, she overhears a conversation between a half-dozen faeries about a pre-solstice party that is being thrown at Toadstool Hall - the faerie-specific dorm, a cross between a fraternity and sorority.

Ella pauses, watching the faeries flit about each other in excitement. She's heard about gatherings thrown by faeries; there's that time-old legend that fae are able to capture victims by seducing them with music and dance, giving a whole new meaning to _dance until you die_. She wonders how accurate that is, how much is myth and how much is truth. Wonders if it would work for her.

One of the faeries notices the curiosity softening Ella's expression, and approaches with a winsome smile. He's handsome in the way that all faeries are, with large eyes and pointed ears and skin that glows faintly, all long hair, elfin features, and impishness. Too pretty by half. Prettier than most faeries she's come across, which is saying a lot of things - mostly, however, that this fae in particular is a leader among his race, someone with power. The fae associate beauty with strength, after all.

"Eavesdropping, little witch?"

She doesn't bother correcting him about her creature status, doesn't see the point in bringing attention to it. She doesn't apologize, either. "Couldn't help but overhear."

A flash of white teeth beneath ice-chip blue eyes. The faerie leans forward, handing her a glazed, supple oak leaf with a flourish. "I am Aro and you - oh my, you would make our gathering so much more interesting. This is your way in, should you chose to join us." He pauses, raking his eyes over her with appreciation. "I certainly hope you will."

Ella takes the leaf, feeling the sugar-sweet magic coating it, almost as saccharine as this fae's blatant interest in her - interest that feels more akin to a collector than a lover, but the attention itself is flattering, in a way. Aro isn't looking at her with concern or pity; he isn't walking on eggshells around her; he doesn't know what she's been through and she _likes_ that feeling. She lets herself spread her lips into a flirtatious smirk as she pockets the leaf, feeling a flush of excitement fill up the scarred, dark void inside of her. Makes her pulse pound with something other than echoes of fear and paranoia.

Apparently, alcohol is not the only thing that will chase away that feeling.

"I'll be there."

* * *

 **A/N: Okay, just saying this, don't worry _too much_ about Aro. Although, I was tickled pink by his characterization in this and the next chapter.**

 **Also, my wrist is feeling much better. Still typing with a brace, but that's just being smart.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	46. part 4: 4: just want to be bad

**four**

 **just want to be bad**

* * *

Toadstool Hall is one of the tallest structures on the Viridity campus - not the largest but certainly the most narrow, reaching up to the sky clear past the hundred-year evergreens behind it. The front yard of the dorm is covered in patches of clovers and dew-dusted flowers and several dozen toadstools of varying sizes arranged into exact circles - faerie rings.

The party hosted by the fae is already raging by the time Ella saunters through the front door, immediately assaulted by a waft of sugary-sweet smoke that leaves her feeling giddy and dizzy on each inhale. She peers around with interest, taking in the gyrating hips, the hypnotically pulsing music, and the way all the non-faeries are flushed in the face, delirious with unrestrained ecstasy. She has never seen so many _pretty_ people in one place and suddenly has a new insight as to her invitation. She'd been right about Aro being a collector, but she assumed it was because of her magic.

No, Aro liked to look at pretty things. She suspects he had a hand in the extravagant décor in Toadstool Hall and smirks to herself, still standing in the doorway. She wants to be like everyone else, eyes glazed and free of all the shit weighing her down.

"Ah, little witch! I'm so delighted that you've come to our modest soiree!"

Ella looks at Aro, brow quirked. He isn't intoxicated by the glittery smoke wafting through the air, immune to whatever faerie magic is weaving through the halls. "Quite the gathering," she says.

"Oh, we like to think so," he responds. "Have you brought your leaf with you?"

Ella holds it aloft, that glazed oak leaf that seems so incapable of being damaged. Aro sees it and smiles. "Lovely. Just lovely. Here," he says, waving a ring-laden hand over the leaf, making it shimmer between her fingers. "Go ahead and have a taste."

And Ella isn't _blind_. Alright, she knows that ingesting this leaf, a thing full of faerie magic, is likely to affect her in the same way as the rest of the non-faeries at this party. But that's exactly what she's counting on.

Aro's smile flashes white as Ella places the leaf on her tongue; it melts there, cold and sweet and vividly tasting of lemon. He watches avidly as the effects hit her in a near-instant. Talk about mind-altering substances - immediately, the world is bright and blinding with glittering lights and she can ignore the crisscross of the lifelines because everything else is a eclectic rush that demands her attention.

Ella giggles, swaying toward Aro. "Holy shit, this is amazing," she breathes, feeling the thump of the downbeat jiggling into her bones. _Jiggling, a very funny word_. She giggles again. She is feather-light as Aro presses a pale hand to her shoulder, guiding her further into the hall, closer to where everyone is dancing.

She wants to dance.

"Go ahead, little witch," he tells her with a laugh and she realizes she must have spoken out loud. He regards her as one would look at a child about to be indulged."Be free, be merry! Enjoy yourself!"

Ella does, throwing herself into the crowd of bodies, all circling hips and roaming hands and sweaty skin and smiling faces. All of her inhibitions are _gone_ as she lets the music take her somewhere else, somewhere far outside of her head, somewhere _better_.

Hands close on her hips and she lets them guide her, feeling a strong outline against her back. Then, a shorter, softer body in front of her, breasts pressing against her own. She laughs, bright and happy, and kisses the pretty blonde in front of her. The girl responds for one long, joyful moment before she is pulling away, and then they are laughing together. Dancing, then parting. On to other partners to dance and kiss and laugh with until the blissful blur is all Ella can think about.

Music and the freeness in her lungs and her lips on someone else's, all in a haze of sugar-spice, glittery smoke and a rush of endorphins.

Eventually, somehow, Ella is pulled through the crowd, placed on the outskirts with her hands tangled in long, light-colored hair with plush lips nipping away at her neck. It feels good, it's all so _good_ -

"I'm Vera!" the girl shouts over the music at one point and even as out-of-this-world as Ella is right now, she can tell the girl isn't entirely human. Vera tastes like saltwater taffy, smells of rain-fresh water, and her eyes are the exact shade of crystalline lakes.

"Ella!" she returns. Then they laugh into each other's mouths, thin fingers trailing over exposed collarbones and questing beneath damp shirts to find sweat-sticky skin with the kind of hedonistic relish that can only be found when one's mind is lost to sensation. It's _fun_. The sugary leaf has left her teeth sticky and her stomach swooping, but the bliss is amazing.

Ella thinks it must be better than any other human drug on the streets or in the clubs.

Faeries truly know what they're doing.

The high doesn't fade. She's still floating as she drifts away from Toadstool Hall, lips swollen and clothes happily askew and sweat cooling on her skin. She spins in a circle as she walks, arms thrown away from her body and face raised toward the twinkling stars overhead. She laughs at the stars, telling them about all the wonderful people she has just met and the way they tasted and how nicely they touched her and how nice it is to feel this amazing.

And then she stumbles against a tree, catching herself against the trunk with another giggle. Ella pats the tree in apology. "Sorry tree. I didn't see you there!"

Ella glides and slips through the frosty December air, crossing the triangle of courtyards at the center of the university as her magic trembles in her veins. Breathless, still twisting to the echo of faerie music in her ears, Ella collapses onto a wooden bench, lounging across it length-wise on her back. She flings her hands overhead, watching her fingers wiggle against the starry backdrop of the night sky, her hands mostly hidden by fingerless gloves.

She likes the feel of the wood beneath her back, supporting her spine without any frills. She turns her had, placing a hand on the back of the seat and giggles at the silly thought that pops into her head.

"Ella."

She looks up toward the voice, catching a solemn verdant-edged amber gaze. He is standing over the bench, arms folded over his chest, and the moonlight makes him look like he's from another world. He _glows_ , backlit and stoic. She smiles up at him, a wide, genuine thing. "Anthony Masen! In the flesh, not the fur!"

His heavy brows lower as his nose flares, a deep inhale followed by a displeased frown. "You smell like faeries," he tells her. Anthony looks to something on her neck and scowls. "Not just faeries," he amends grumpily.

"I ate a leaf," she announces proudly.

He ignores this. "What are you doing out here?"

Ella pats the bench. "Hey, wouldn't it be fun if the benches could talk? Imagine what they would say!"

Anthony rubs a hand over his hair, mussing the toffee-toned curls with a sigh. "For fuck's sake, you're outrageously high, aren't you? Not that I can blame you," he says as he rounds the bench and crouches down at her side. He coaxes her to sit up straight, placing himself just to the side of her knees and catching her eyes intently. "How much did you take? What were you thinking?"

She reaches out to touch the sharp angle of his cheekbone, fascinated by the pleasant zing of heat that races down her spine at the contact and the way he briefly closes his eyes. When he opens them and his expression is just as serious as before, she pouts. "My shoulders were aching. I wanted to be weightless!"

He grasps her wandering hands, pulling them together by the wrists gently and helping her to stand. "Hopefully you'll understand how stupid that idea was when you wake up tomorrow. This isn't the way to solve your problems….and you're not even listening to me, are you? Fuck."

Ella's eyes are once again riveted on the stars above. She thinks she sees the Orion constellation and starts chattering about the importance of constellations to magic casting and then wonders if that matters for her anymore, either. And she continues talking in this vein as she walks, unwittingly being led back to Red Lily Hall.

"Can you get inside? Ella. Ella, can you get inside by yourself?"

She laughs at the frustration marring his brow. "Anthony Masen! When did you get here? Hey, hey, what's with your face? It's all frowny and-"

Anthony leans around her, knocking firmly on the door.

It must be luck that Bree answers, an open jar of peanut butter and spoon in hand. She takes one look at Ella and barks out a laugh. "Whoa, you're totally lit!" Then she seems to hear herself and frowns at Anthony. "What did you do, bro?"

"I didn't do anything," he says, pushing Ella toward the door by the small of her back. "I found her wandering around campus trying to spell benches to speak. She's your responsibility now."

Ella digs in her heels, jabbing a finger at his chest. "Fuck you, I don't need anyone to take care of me."

"Of course not," he agrees sardonically. "That's why you're mind blowingly high at two in the morning and blathering on about magic stars."

"Shut up before I hex you!"

Bree snorts, draping an arm over Ella's shoulder. "Oh, wow, she's meaner when she's stoned. That's kind of an unpleasant surprise. Here, you, come on before you actually curse my brother," she says, shooting Anthony a quelling look. "Very tempting, I know."

Ella nods in agreement. "I could turn him into a toad or, like, Gordon Ramsay. He's so grumpy, you know."

"Preaching to the choir," Bree agrees.

"This is the thanks I get." Anthony rolls his eyes, then looks at Bree pointedly. "Get her upstairs."

Bree might say something in response, but by then Ella has already lost interest in the werewolves, struck by a sudden vicious hunger, moving into the kitchen with single-minded determination. Ella is all about sating her needs and right now, she _needs_ something salty to chase away the sweet on her tongue.

She wants to float weightlessly forever.

* * *

 **A/N: Illicit, mind-altering drug use! Anthony and Ella, perhaps not how you might imagine them. Also, some hints at fem!slash. Because I can, that's why. Also, I had to lay the groundwork for the next arc.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	47. part 4: 5: blackout

**five**

 **blackout**

* * *

"Raven," she slurs with a sleepy, satisfied smile, stomach full of cheese and bread and butter, head floating pleasantly from the faerie leaf. "D'you know about the magician glass?"

"Very little, but yes."

Ella waves her hand over her head, her ring catching moonlight from the waning crescent. "Can…is it possible to, like, make 'nother one, do you think?"

"If you know what you're doing," the familiar answers.

Ella rolls onto her back, grinning triumphantly at the spinning ceiling. "Excellent. Tha's good. Good."

She closes her eyes, ready to give into the blackness creeping at the edge of her vision. A blissful blackout.

Just as she falls over the edge, though, she feels a curious tug on her lifeline. Slit eyes open, she peers unsteadily at the fraying silver-white edges spinning away from her and into the distance.

A stray feeling of disappointment and worry follows her into the drunken blackout.

(Those aren't her feelings, but she won't remember any of this when she wakes up with a pounding head in the morning.)

* * *

 **A/N: Well. There that is.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	48. part 4: 6: then morning came

**six**

 **then morning came**

* * *

Ella groans when she wakes up. Her pulse is beating a sledgehammer in her head with every beat of her heart and her stomach is twisting unpleasantly. Mouth dry, she stumbles out of her dorm room and down the hallway to the bathroom, wincing at the bright flicker of lights and her pallid complexion in the mirror. Something ugly and mean slithers through her mind - a hefty price of guilt for all the weightless freedom of the night before.

She remembers almost nothing except for the music reverberating through her bones and the twinkle of stars overhead. It's terrifying not being able to account for her behavior. Different than getting drunk, the faerie leaf is a wallop of ecstasy that is surely unrivaled by anything else on the planet and while the fae are immune to it, non-fae are decidedly not. Ella breathes out heavily, leaning against the sink, feeling altogether that she's been hit by a macktruck.

Her magic is no different and after a night of not keeping track of the burn as it stretched within her, her natural pathways feel sensitive - as if stung by a horde of bees. Had she done magic last night? The reflection in the mirror can't tell her and Ella doesn't know who to ask.

If she even should ask.

She leans back, flipping on the tap to splash cold water on her face, washing away the sleep and pushing wet hands through her hair. As she does this, pulling espresso-dark strands over her shoulder, a splotchy red-purple bruise on her neck catches her attention. Ella goes cold staring at it. There is a hickey on her neck, surrounded by a lipstick stain in a soft rose color. Sense-memories flash through her mind - feminine giggling and blonde hair and saltwater taffy in her mouth. A name, in her ear and on her tongue. _Vera_.

Her brows furrow as she searches last night's meager recollections. Had she and Vera…? Ella doesn't _think_ so, because high or not, there are certain lines that she is sure she wouldn't want to cross. Her lips are still swollen, making her think that she and Vera only traded kisses and wandering hands. It's the wondering - the what if - that throws her, that makes her glare at herself in the mirror and harshly tug her clothes and hair into place, unheeding of her shaking hands or the tempo pulse of the faerie hangover.

Ella is disgusted with herself - with her behavior. With the bruise on her skin that looks so much like the ones left on her foster sister on the night they ran away and the shame of how Ella isn't completely certain of _who_ gave the hickey to her. Because Vera - was that her name - was not the only person Ella kissed last night. She wasn't even the only girl.

 _It was the faerie leaf_ , she tells herself, but it's a flimsy excuse and it doesn't override the churning guilt deep in her belly.

That doesn't mean she wants to stop seeking oblivion, though. Just perhaps not with _drugs_. At least when she's sloppy drunk, she's by herself and away from everyone else.

Ella waves a hand over her neck, blithely ignore the sear of magic as it rushes through her body, and makes the bruise disappear, healed before her eyes in mere seconds. The hangover, on the other hand, she keeps - a sort of self-flagellation, something to remind her of how out of control - how dangerous to others - she was and how it shouldn't have happened in the first place.

She ducks away from the mirror, forehead to knees, breath coming in rapid, hummingbird-quick flirtations. _Never again,_ she promises herself. _Never that far again._

(Because isn't she forgetting something? Why is it that some small part of her is humming with amber awareness?)

* * *

 **A/N: Guilt and regret are pervasive things - but so is escapism.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	49. part 4: 7: such a tragedy in you

**seven**

 **such a tragedy in you**

* * *

Ella is not having a good day. Or week. Or month, for that matter. It's just one endlessly sucky day after another and the only thing - the _only thing_ \- that makes any of it better is being inebriated. And failing inebriation, then at the very least, a hangover so acute that she can't think her way around the pounding roadblocks it creates.

There are downsides, however. Being constantly hung over means that she's late to classes or can't remember her homework or zones out in lectures. She's not doing very well in any of her classes and finals are coming up and she's just completely failing. Every time she picks up a pencil to sketch, she ends up staring at the blank page before growing frustrated with herself, throwing the pencil across the room and shredding the paper beneath her fingers. And now she's been fired from her job at the Student Center for being "unreliable".

It's as good an excuse as any to conjure up some vodka to get a little wasted in the middle of the day. The sting of alcohol coating her throat is better than the roiling anger building up inside. Ella is unreliable? Ella is _going through shit_. Not that she can tell that to the harried manager of the Student Center, even if she _wanted_ to, which she _doesn't_ because not talking about it is definitely working for her. It is. It really is.

But it's maybe not her most brilliant idea to go ahead and visit Carlisle - as previously promised - when she's swaying on her feet. The thing is, though, that she doesn't even consider canceling. Something in her is reaching out for _someone_. Carlisle will work, even though he's not a perfect fit.

(She doesn't know who would be, at this point. Who would even want to deal with all the fucking baggage hanging off of her? _She_ doesn't even want to deal with herself.)

Ella doesn't bother knocking on Carlisle's door, simply lets herself in and goes about removing the bulky scarf from her neck. She stumbles when she reaches up to drape it over the coat tree by the door, banging the hooks into the wall. She curses beneath her breath when Carlisle calls out from the living room.

"'m fine! Totally fine!" she calls back, shifting her leather jacket off her shoulders. Carlisle comes to investigate anyway, looking at her with deep concern in the knit of his brow. "I'm _fine_ ," she tells him.

Carlisle frowns, leaning forward a bit - and then leaning back in shock. "Are you drunk?"

 _Oh, right, the smell is kind of obvious_. Cursing her oversight, Ella is left with no choice but to own up to it. Her smile is strained, but still loose with the free-fall feeling of alcohol coursing through her system. "Yep, a little bit. Had a bad day."

"Ella, why would you-"

She tries to play it off, like this is a casual, one-time thing instead of what it really is. "Well, I mean, you're planning on calming me with some of that magic tea of yours, right? And that's fine, but I've decided that I like doing things on my own terms…so instead of your tea, I went with the more fun option, yeah? If I'm going to be high, like. And it's just one day. Really. No need to worry about it."

"Oh dear-"

She flinches. Her voice is unexpectedly harsh when she speaks. "Don't - don't say that word. Any other expression, Carlisle. Just not that word."

Carlisle is contrite. "Of course, Ella. Of course. I apologize," he says, then steps back. "Please, come in and let us get you warm. Perhaps you can even stay the night?"

Ella doesn't move. Her original purpose to visit Carlisle had been to discuss the creation of another magician's glass, because even though her magic is burning less and less as her pathways become accustomed to the forceful growth spurt, it doesn't negate the fact that Ella _needs_ some kind of restraint placed on her. With emotions as volatile as hers - swinging from anger to anxiety to irritability to profound sadness - it is obvious, at least to Ella, that the _smart_ thing to do is to place as many failsafes as possible on this new power.

Because magic is _too easy_ \- and her impulse control is not great. Not right now.

But now she hesitates. Isn't sure she wants to take a step forward and effectively let Carlisle in to see what the hell is going on in her head. Doesn't know if she can listen to him be sympathetic and supportive when all she's been doing lately is fucking up. Because maybe he didn't leave her in the foster system and maybe he doesn't love her any less because he has a _real_ daughter - but maybe even Carlisle has his limits and Ella is about to cross over one with no way to take it back.

"On second thought," she says, taking back her scarf and jacket. She tries to hide the way the room is spinning, making her balance unsteady, as she dons the winter clothes again. "Rain check."

"Ella-"

"See you later!" she calls over her shoulder as she retreats.

She doesn't need to look at his face to see his disappointment or study his lifeline to understand just how much she is hurting him. And she _doesn't_ look because that just makes it all more real than she can handle.

(She's such a fucking tragedy.)

* * *

 **A/N: Ever want to reach out and then get in your own damn way?**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	50. part 4: 8: tied up around these wounds

**eight**

 **tied up around these wounds**

* * *

It's a week before Christmas when Peter catches her outside of their shared lecture hall. Ella suppresses a groan at the earnestness in his expression, all bright-eyed and pink-cheeked from the cold. She's been avoiding him, avoiding everyone, because it's _easier_ \- but Peter has a determined glint in his eye and she knows she won't be getting out of this so easily.

She tries to walk past him, anyway.

Peter catches her elbow. "Ella-"

"Let go of me."

He drops his hand hastily, stepping back with both hands held up, eyes wide. "Shit, sorry. I'm sorry - I - did Bree tell you that I _tried_ -" He stops himself, clearing his throat under the weight of her terse silence. "Right. Of course she told you. Obviously. Like, you live together, so, it's come up."

A group of students pass in the space between them and then it is just Peter and Ella in the hallway.

Peter scuffs his shoe against the floor. He's more subdued than she has ever seen him and it's her fault. "I thought they would find you. Sooner, I mean. When I told them about the hag, I thought…but I guess not."

Ella softens in spite of herself, then sighs. "Don't go feeling bad about it for no reason. You tried. And the hag is dead, so we're good."

Peter's eyes flick up from his feet. "Are we?"

The subtext: _are you okay?_

"I'm _fine_ ," she says crisply. "Better than fine, actually. I'm _great_."

Peter frowns, tilting his head. "Really? Because Bree said that you've been partying kind of hard - and, like, no judgment from _me_ , of course - but it is sort of weird. For you, I mean. Because you're like, the most self-contained person I've ever seen and it's terrifying how competent you can be and - well - I mean, you don't _seem_ like you're fine -"

"Oh, my _fucking_ God. Are you incapable of shutting your mouth for more than five seconds at a time? Aren't you listening to me?" Ella snaps, rounding on Peter with fury writ plain on her face. She pulls back on the magic trying to tumble away from her, nose flaring. "I told you: I am _fine_. Don't waste your time worrying about me."

Ella storms off without a second glance backward.

(And later, the guilt for how she treated Peter drives her to drink until her world goes dark and silent.)

(She's a horrible person.)

* * *

 **A/N: Two more chapters for this part and then we can all breathe a sigh of relief. #emotionsarehard**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	51. part 4: 9: tough love

**nine**

 **tough love**

* * *

The wards wrapped around Ella's dorm room pulse once - a warning that someone is approaching with the intent of _speaking_ with her - and is quickly followed by three measured raps on the door. Ella lifts her head from her pillow, staring at the wobbling outline of her doorway, reaching out just enough to confirm that it's _Alice_ waiting for a response.

Her head falls back with an explosive groan, but she twirls her fingers anyway, opening the door with a flourish of faint silver-sheen magic that - thankfully - doesn't boil her blood. Her magical pathways are acclimating, finally.

Alice stands in the doorway, arms crossed beneath her breasts, a white turtleneck sweater curling beneath the steady set of her chin. Gimlet eyes survey the room, taking in the clutter of dirty clothes, the darkness of the shaded window, the crumpled, torn paper littered on the floor, and Ella's drunken sprawl, a short glass of vodka cradled in her hand.

"This is pathetic," Alice says flatly, stepping into the room gingerly. She sneers a bit at the disorder before directing a probing stare at Ella.

"Screw you."

"Really, though, is any of this making you feel better? Or is wallowing in all this filth, throwing yourself the pity party of the century, really helping?"

Ella closes her eyes. "You know, I never actually invited you into my domain, so go away. I'm not nearly drunk enough to deal with you."

Alice sighs. It sounds just as long-suffering as Carlisle's and Ella feels a pang in her chest because that _right there_ is something she'll never be able to actually share with her adoptive father. Or any father. Or any _parent_ , for that matter, because both are super-dead because of what _Ella_ is and she'll never know them enough to pick up their little behaviors. Not like Alice can with Carlisle.

The glass disappears from her hand. Ella's eyes snap open. "Hey! Give that back!"

Alice holds the glass away from her, defiant even when Ella's fingers spark silver. "As your Resident Advisor, I feel that it's my place to inform you that alcohol brought onto the premises is prohibited."

"Lucky for me, then," Ella retorts as she swings her legs over the side of the bed, red-rimmed eyes following Alice as the banshee kicks all of her dirty clothes into one corner with her nose wrinkled. The glass is in her hand, held between two fingers like it's radioactive acid rather than Ella's easiest route to oblivion. "I didn't _bring_ it into the dorm. I took advantage of that gaping loophole and made it myself."

"Semantics," Alice decides.

If Ella wanted to, she could snap her fingers and get the vodka back. Hell, she could snap her fingers and force Alice out of her dorm completely. But she doesn't - because Alice doesn't do _anything_ without a reason, especially not anything concerning Ella, who she can barely tolerate, even for Carlisle's sake. And because Alice's lifeline is not as frosty-cool as it normally is; with a start, Ella realizes that Alice is concerned.

About her.

Alice bends, placing the glass out into the hallway, and partially closing the door, as if to remove Ella from temptation. She levels Ella with a considering look, and then she says, "I can't decided if you're actually this much of a bitch, or if you're really this messed up. I've never seen anyone actively dig their own grave, but here you are and doing an admirable job of dragging everyone down with you."

Ella curls her fingers into the edge of her mattress. " _Fuck_ you, Alice. You don't know half of what I've been through-"

"No, you're right, I don't," Alice cuts in swiftly. She shakes her head. "I don't know and I pray to all my ancestors that I never will, because _look_ at you. I certainly don't want to experience this for myself. But that's not the problem, here."

Ella laughs, a short, sharp, sardonic sound that is not kind at all. "What's the _problem_ , then? Why are you kicking me while I'm down? Why _bother_?"

Alice straightens. "Contrary to what you might believe, I don't actually hate you, Ella. Or resent you. I don't even loathe you right now because one can't really loathe the pathetic. I pity you," Alice says and it cuts because Ella had _never_ been pitied. She rejects the very notion, yet there it is, glimmering in the pale green depths of Alice's piteous and forthright gaze. "The problem is that you're not just hurting yourself anymore. People _care_ about you, Ella, and God-willing, Carlisle is one of those people."

Ella bristles. "What would you know about what Carlisle - or anyone - feels?"

"Banshees are privy to more than you think," Alice says bluntly.

 _Obviously_.

"Look at yourself. If you're not at rock bottom yet, you will be soon. And it's true that I don't know you well - I'm not sure I even _want_ to know you, if I'm being honest, but that isn't up to me anymore…" Alice sighs. "We share someone very important in common and you, this, the way you've been is _hurting_ him. And this isn't _you_ , is it, Ella?"

Ella bows her head, shoulders hunched up around her ears defensively, magic cooling in her veins. She's sobering beneath Alice's lecture, under the reminders that Alice is baldly hand-delivering. _Alice_ , forging where none of Ella's real friends had dared to go, where Carlisle shied away from. Alice, who has zero fucks to give about treating Ella with the kid-gloves that everyone else has donned after the thing with the hag.

"It's up to you," Alice says, opening the door slowly. "You can keep feeling sorry for yourself or you can _get up_ and deal with it - but you can't keep hurting the people around you just because _you're_ hurting. It's not fair to anyone."

Alice leaves, closing the door with a _click_ and Ella sits alone in her room, reeling. Holding back tears brought on by the _unrelenting truth_ that Alice had spoken. Ella has been so selfish, so lost in her own issues that she couldn't see the shit she's leaving in her wake. She never would have thought that it would be Alice - of all people - to deliver the tough love that she needed to hear.

Had stranger things ever happened?

* * *

 **A/N: Yes, Ella, stranger things _have_ happened. Like the show Stranger Things, which is more terrifying than strange, but I digress.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	52. part 4: 10: learn to swim while drowning

**ten**

 **learn to swim while drowning**

* * *

It is far past midnight and snow falls from the sky in heavy, icy sheets that cling to Ella's hair, her face, her neck. She isn't wearing a coat, hasn't even given a second thought to the chill seeping through her sweater and her boots. She focuses only on walking, keeping Raven tucked close to her chest as the wind blows, whipping snow into her eyes.

The snow stings, but Ella is already crying.

She's been crying for a while.

"The next left," comes Raven's subdued voice and Ella complies with the directive. She's not really in the state of mind to be getting herself where she needs to go right now - and if she's being honest, she _hasn't_ be in the state of mind for some time now. Almost a month. Probably more than that.

How long? How _long_ has she done this - pushed people away before they could leave her, or let her opinions of people drop so drastically at the drop of a hat? She's always been angry, but she's also always had things to be angry about. Just - it isn't _normal_ , is it, that her anger is so long lasting? That the guilt and confusion and question of her identity all swirl so _completely_ \- overpoweringly, even - inside her? That she's self-destructive and impulsive and self-isolating?

Ella isn't normal, is she? And not even for the obvious magic-related reasons.

"It's just up ahead," says her familiar.

Ella nods, pushing past the numbness crawling up her legs. She can see the distinctive blue paint through the snowstorm and something in her cracks - a fissure that results in weakened knees and her magic surging outward. Ella tugs on that familiar calm blue lifeline as she stumbles up to the porch, leaning heavily against the front door.

Raven wiggles from Ella's cold-fingered grasp, swooping down to the hardwood just as the door opens and Ella collapses forward - right into Carlisle's warm, safe arms.

"Ella? Ella, love, what's wrong?" he murmurs, guiding her inside. He doesn't flinch when her shivering arms clasp around his neck, holding her face to the crook of his neck - he smells of green tea and old books and _safety_.

She sobs brokenly, a unschooled release of pent-up emotions that she's been bottling up and ignoring for weeks, months, years. Every insecurity, every fear, every scar on her heart is let out into Carlisle's ugly sweater and all he does is hum at her soothingly, running his hand over the back of her head over and over again.

"'m so sorry. I'm so _sorry_. I don't know why I-" Ella breaks off, air tight in her lungs. She's crying so hard that it's difficult to speak, let alone breathe.

"Calm down. Breathe in, one, two, three, four. That's it, deep breathes, love," he coaches gently. "Now, breathe out, count to eight. In. Out. There it is. That's a good girl, Ella."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Carlisle hushes her softly. He does not let her go until her rib-wracking sobs have calmed to a more manageable hiccups. He pulls back only far enough to wipe his thumbs beneath her eyes, frowning at her with deep concern. "You've nothing to be sorry about, Ella."

She shakes her head, still crying. It's like she's _leaking_ , or something. She can't seem to stop now that she's started. "But I _do_ ," she tells him. "I have so much to be sorry for. I'm - I'm not…"

"What is it? You can tell me, Ella. You can _always_ tell me."

Ella bites her lip, the words on the tip of her tongue. And it's so _hard_ to say it, but she does, stuttering through that nagging thought that's been growing ever since Alice read her a gentler version of the Riot Act.

"Carlisle? I'm…There's something w-wrong with me. In my head. I'm not _right_. I'm not - my mind isn't normal and I'm not _right_ and I don't think I've ever _been_ right." She stares at him with watery eyes, a wrenching in her chest when realization dawns on his face. "I'm not okay. I'm not."

"Oh, Ella." He hugs her close again. Always so goddamn supportive and understanding and _normal_.

"What's wrong with me?" she whispers brokenly. "Why am I like this? I don't _want_ to be like this - I don't want - there's something _wrong_ with me, Dad."

"We'll get you sorted, my darling girl. I promise."

And Ella believes him.

(This is the first step - she's been drowning for so long but now it's time to swim.)

* * *

 **A/N: *wilts* Part 4 is officially done, except for the interlude. Or interludes? Still deciding which perspectives are relevant to the next arc. But the good news is that we're through the messy coping habits, so we've found our way through the darkness.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	53. part 4: interlude

**interlude**

* * *

 _It's a scary thing to watch someone spiral_ , Alice thinks as she walks by Ella's dorm room. Ella is currently standing in the middle of the room and - very much against Red Lily Hall _rules_ \- using magic to clean her room, purging nearly a whole month of dirt and darkness with easy twirls of her sleeve-covered wrists.

 _So different than before_.

Alice is still perturbed by the fantastic memory - that night when she felt the banshee scream bubbling in her throat, the whispers chanting a lost girl's name, the tears in her mother's eyes when they both realized that Carlisle _knew_ what was about to happen -

And then, the scream simply stopped. The urge to pierce the veil with her voice vanished. And the whispers - the whispers were _silent_.

 _Unnatural_ , she thought. But then she'd _seen_ Ella, blood-stained beneath bronze skin with eyes of the palest grey, just _hints_ of green and blue and flecked with brilliant, molten silver. Eyes that are much different now than they were before. Eyes that are narrowed by internal horrors, unless the irises are bleeding silver with a flux of magic, glowing strangely in the set of that angry face. Eyes that only suggested _other_ changes Ella withstood after surviving the hag.

 _Haunted_ , she decided later once it became _very_ clear that Ella wasn't coping well. Not even a little bit. Not even _trying_ to cope well, it seemed.

And Alice doesn't _know_ everything that's happened to Ella; it's not like _Ella_ is chatty about her past or that Carlisle knows everything about what happened to her in the foster system. Alice can't know and she doesn't want to know. There is a difference, however, between being willfully ignorant and being obtuse and Alice, for the most part, is neither. She's curious, a finder of facts, a journalism major. It isn't as if it is _difficult_ to search the right data bases and figure out that Ella's downward spiral isn't all that strange for foster kids - the part that _is_ strange, however, is just how rapid the decline is. How completely Ella falls into a bottle, chases a high, lingers in the wickedness of her experience.

Alice becomes _concerned_.

Not because she's the Resident Advisor for Red Lily Hall. Not because Ella is important to Carlisle, like she led Ella to believe. Not even because Alice has a heart of gold. Alice would not admit it to _anyone_ , but she had been worried for Ella - because as a banshee, she could sense how close Ella was tottering toward an early death - or rather, a second death.

It had been very disturbing to see Ella isolate herself and then turn to self-medication. A red flag, a cry for help if ever there was one - and much to her consternation, after it became apparent that Ella was pushing everyone else away, it fell to _Alice_ to break through that impenetrable wall. Easier said than done. She hadn't been sure that anything she said broke through until her mother called in the middle of the night and asked that Alice retrieve some of Ella's belongings to be brought to Carlisle's house while Ella _recuperated_ (which was her mother's kind way of implying _work through withdrawal_ ).

She hadn't been lying when she called Ella pathetic, or when she said she pitied the other girl. It _was_ pathetic that someone so _strong_ \- and Ella _is_ strong, probably stronger than Alice can comprehend - fall so low. To allow themselves to fall so low.

If Ella, who had been through hell and back, could sink, then what would become of Alice once her banshee gifts finally reached maturity?

Because Alice is - soft. She isn't _eat-nails-for-breakfast_ hard like Ella. She simply doesn't think herself capable of pulling through even a tenth of the hand that has been dealt to the other girl. If Ella can't deal, then the chances are that _Alice_ won't be able to deal, either.

The truth is that the whispers following her each day - heard only in her mind, the voices beyond the veil - are unimaginably challenging, both to listen to and tune out and comprehend. They never _stop_ , the noise is always bee-buzz quiet, an ebb and flow followed by varying levels of urgency and then Alice will look down and cringe at the automatic writing or wonder at how she has gotten to a place without even _realizing_ it. And that is…not okay with Alice.

Not at all. Because the whispers, the automatic writing, the physical _scrying_? That's all just the beginning and already Alice's gifts have outstripped her mother's. Alice is more accurate. Alice is more in-tuned. Alice is that much closer to losing _her_ mind as her carefully controlled world doesn't contort itself _just so_.

Alice reaches her room and closes the door quietly behind her. Everything is in order, everything in it's place in a room of varying shades of white. Alice's favorite color - and the color symbolizing The White Lady, one of the eldest of Alice's banshee ancestors, and who Alice is almost certain she hears the loudest when the whispers reach a crescendo.

At the moment, the white of her room is blurring before her eyes as she loses focus, her maintained control finally slipping in the safety of her room. She shivers at the cold blowing across her neck, a pinprick of awareness stretching her ear drums -

 _Cousins play two by two on the shore,_ the whispers say. _And on the shore one by one the cousins slay._

Alice slides onto her bottom, curling closer to her knees, counting her breaths as they grow heavy - weighed down, almost too hard to move. She feels like she's drowning, the phantom sensation of water lapping at her skin, and being pulled down, and gasping for air only to find water -

 _Cousins play two by two on the shore. And on the shore one by one the cousins slay_.

 _Only one cousin swims to reach the day._

* * *

 **A/N: A bit of insight and a bit of foreshadowing.**

 **On another note, mental illness is such a unique thing; nobody experiences anything quite the same as another. It's easy to say that a person with a mental illness should do this or that or just get over it or do the normal thing or whatever - but the thing is that mental illness is decidedly _abnormal_. I don't think that there was any "right" way for Ella to cope with what happened to her. This is the direction I decided to write her for various reasons and if you were uncomfortable with it or disagreed with it - then I think _goal reached_. It's a difficult perspective to get into the headspace for, so. **

**Also, thank you to a _certain_ reviewer for all the lovely reviews. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	54. part 4: interlude interlude

**interlude**

* * *

"I owe you an apology."

Peter shivers beneath the weight of Ella's stare, struck by the sincerity in the pinch of her brow and the determined set of her jaw. _She's so short_ , he thinks with fondness. _And prickly. Like a cactus. A tiny cactus._

(Peter would never win any awards for poetry, that's for sure.)

The last time they spoke to each other - well, the last time _Peter_ spoke and Ella _freaked the fuck out on him_ \- was not a memory that he is particularly enchanted by, especially because at the time he felt like a hard-won friendship (and it _was_ hard-won by a lot of effort on his part and a lot of tolerance on hers) had disintegrated right before his eyes.

Which was tough for _him_ because Ella is currently, like, _the only one_ who knows. About Peter. And Peter's Sexual Identity Crisis. Ice cream had been involved and he'd _bonded_ to her just like that, this person who just seemed capable of rolling with the punches.

Except - well, it is somewhat humbling to learn that Ella isn't as aggressively cool as he originally thought. Humbling until she lashed out at _him_ , however, because then it was just gut-churning _bad_. Worse because he could take a _super_ educated guess as to what had happened to her with the hag; even not knowing the details, from what he'd read that day in the library, he knew it must have been gnarly. Which was why when nobody could find her _,_ Peter had run around like a chicken without its head and aggravated Bree into accepting the new reality that, yes, hags _definitely_ are real and one almost-probably-certainly has Ella _like right now_ and that they should _do_ something about it. And that hadn't even been quick on his part, because it took three days for word to reach him that Ella was gone and another two for anyone to believe him.

The hag had Ella for just over a week and did _God_ knows what to his friend. He can't really blame her for the post-hag personality transplant, can he?

He shrugs. "You really don't though. Like, I can totally empathize with your angst, you know?"

"Don't make excuses for me," she tells him bluntly. "I've been doing enough of that myself."

Peter sighs, scratching the back of his neck. "Alright. You _were_ kind of a dick."

"Only kind of?"

He takes in the way her mouth is twitching against a smile and snorts, easily falling back into the rhythms of their friendship. "No, you're right," he teases. "You were a _major_ dick. Like, Tony Stark calling Steve Rogers _Capsicle_ and then goading Bruce Banner into Hulk-level rages for his own entertainment - that's how much of a dick you were."

She rolls her eyes.

Peter grins and shuffles along beside her as the meander across campus, slowing his strides in deference to her smaller stature. He's such a beanpole, man - more height than brain cells, if anyone listened to Riley. Which is _mean_ to say, but then again, it seems like all of Peter's favorite people are Grade-A assholes and what does that say about him, really? Other than he has a _type_.

They are quiet for a minute and Peter is just about to launch into a play-by-play account of how Christmas with the Martins went the previous week - which is to say, _loud_ and _many cookies were devoured_ \- when Ella stops. Just, like, right in the middle of the sidewalk.

"What?" Peter cranes his neck, looking for what had halted their progression toward the promising warmth of the Student Center and the lovely, lovely coffee just waiting for them inside. He sees nothing, and so blinks down at Ella.

She looks downright pensive, releasing her bottom lip from the abuse of her teeth. "Peter. Has anyone told you that you're a potential?"

Peter scrunches his nose. "Well, I mean, my mom says I have _tons_ of potential and Riley says that, too, but I don't think they mean it in the same way, like -"

"No, that's not what I'm talking about. Hold on," she interrupts seriously and then she snaps and there are faint silver sparks rising from her skin that match the brief flash of _pure_ silver in her eerie-pale eyes and then there is stark _silence_. Total absence of sound. "There, now that we have some privacy, I-"

"Oh, my _God_ ," he breathes in excitement. "You totally just cast a _muffling charm_. You're the Half-Blood Prince, aren't you? _Dude_. That is _so cool_. I mean, like, I'm friends with _Snape_ and even though he was totally irredeemable - but, like, don't mention that to Riley -"

" _Peter_."

He snaps his mouth shut with a click.

"You are a potential," she says, enunciating carefully. " _Are_ a potential - not _have_ potential. Do you understand the difference?"

"Uh, other than your grammar is kind of shit?"

Ella sighs. "I guess you don't know, then. Here, let me tell it to you as simply as possible. You are a potential, a human with just enough of a spark of magic burrowed beneath all of this frankly startling amount of _nerd_ that you can become something that is _more_ than human."

"Oh. Okay." He bobs his head for moment and then frowns when she levels him with an unimpressed look. "Right, what does that mean, exactly?"

"You could learn magic if you wanted, maybe even learn enough to become a druid or a warlock."

"You're kidding."

"I'm really not."

"That's _so cool_."

Ella grimaces.

Peter deflates a little. "Wait, is it not cool?"

Ella snaps her fingers again, tucking her hands into her pockets. "No, it is cool for you. Just…try not to get bitten by anything on accident."

"Well, that isn't ominous," he mutters.

* * *

 **A/N: It's like Blue's Clues, but without the dog. Did anyone else know Blue was a _girl_? My entire childhood is a lie.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	55. part 4: interlude interlude interlude

**interlude**

* * *

"Vera is acting so _weird_ ," Lillian confesses as her furry snow boots sink into the frozen deluge still falling over the Viridity campus. "She dropped out of all of her music classes and switched her major to _athletics_ over break - for no reason at all, as far as I can tell. She's been partying and staying out all night, too. And that's weird, isn't it?"

He glances at his best friend from the corner of his eye. "That's weird," he agrees. Because Vera O'Brien isn't what anyone would call an athlete and the last Anthony checked, she hated sweating just as much as Lillian does. The partying, on the other hand, doesn't seem _so_ out of character, but then he guesses that Lillian's real issue with that bit is that Vera is leaving her behind, or something. And that is unusual, because Vera O'Brien and Lillian Hale epitomized _attached at the hip_ even on their worst days. It's been that way since they were all in grade school.

"God, did she go and get a lobotomy or _what_?"

"Those are illegal," he points out drolly.

Lillian arches a perfect ice-blonde brow. "But are they really?"

He scoffs and then -

A whiff of citrus-tang ensnares his senses. A scent he would know anywhere for its underlying notes of honey and electric-spark and something deep and dark, like chocolate and coffee.

 _Ella_.

He is immediately distracted, stopping in his tracks while Lillian walks on.

Anthony catches a glimpse of her across the triangular courtyards at the university - talking to his sibling's annoying friend, Pete or something - and something unclenches in his chest. He sighs in relief at finding none of the tell-tale signs of her suffering - no shadowy bruises from sleepless nights, none of the tightness pulling at her mouth and shoulders, and decidedly _sober_. She looks leagues better than the last time he saw her, laid boneless and delirious over a bench, giggling one moment and cursing him the next.

(He had known it was coming - she'd told him before she left - but he didn't anticipate it would be so difficult for _him_ to watch. Understanding that by _her own decision_ that she _needed_ this span of weeks.

 _"It's like, pain makes you feel alive."_

" _Ella, that's…" Cynical. Morbid. Fucked up._

 _"Yeah, I know. But it is what it is. Maybe a better way of putting it is that pain reminds you that you're alive - because if you're hurting, you're still breathing, right? I mean, physical pain is your body telling you that something is wrong; emotional pain is the same way. To suffer is to be human. And…especially those like us need those reminders, sometimes."_

Anthony thinks he _gets it_ , now, after watching her suffering.

Doesn't mean he has to _like it_.)

(She's still not the same girl. Not yet. But close.)

"Tony?"

Anthony forces his eyes away, then clears his throat at Lillian's expectant expression. "Yeah, sorry."

"What was that? You just zoned out," she says and there's genuine concern as she stares at him. Enough that he feels like a jackass for making her worry when she's already quietly fretting - in her own way - about Vera.

Anthony ducks his head. "Nothing. Just thought I forgot something in my dorm. Let's go."

(The citrus-electric-coffee scent still lingers, though, and the wolf inside rests easier for the moment.)

* * *

 **A/N: The final interlude for this arc. Onward to Part 5.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	56. part 5: 1: new shoes for old feet

**five**

 **new shoes for old feet**

* * *

The office is airy, a space of calming seagreen walls and wide windows shaded by sheer grey curtains, casting the room in a gentle, cool light; there are two chairs, one an over-stuffed velvet beige, the other a straight-backed pallid blue, and a cozy loveseat in taupe leather; the coffee table is clean-cut glass featuring only a crystal vase holding a single blue Egyptian lotus and a plain, square box of Kleenex.

Ella simultaneously feels at ease and on edge.

The psychologist, a woman of wet-sand skin and deep brown eyes, both soft and fierce, introduces herself as Kebi. Her lifeline is new to Ella, the a deep earth-tone, like red clay, that stretches far out into the distance; the very edge of what she can see is tinted with a kaolin-light weave, the color that represents Kebi's soulmate. The earth-mother feel is incredibly soothing, as is the ageless wisdom hiding in Kebi's dark eyes. She's a descendent of a sphinx - a shapeshifter both wise and ferocious - and her dark hair tumbles in loose curls in a halo around her head, not unlike the mane of a lion.

Ella tries very hard not to feel like a mouse caught in a trap when that fathomless gaze falls upon her. Instead, she sits in the straight-backed chair, stiff in the shoulders.

Kebi sits on the other chair and takes a moment to adjust a pillow behind her back; she's heavily pregnant, but glows with new life. If Ella squints, she can almost see the lifeline of the baby unfurling. It's distracting enough that she looks away, only to see that Kebi has brought out a leather-bound notebook and has a pen poised over paper.

Kebi smiles, a slight twitch of red-painted lips. "So, can you tell me why you're here today?"

Ella crosses her arms over her chest. "I assume you already know. Carlisle arranged the session for me."

"He did. And I do know why you're here, but I want _you_ to tell me what you've been going though."

"I…" Ella stops. She doesn't know what to say, other than she _really_ doesn't want to be here, sitting in the office of Viridity's head psychologist. Having a pow-wow about her mental health is not on the top of Ella's to-do list and any other time, she would refuse with _prejudice_. But she'd promised Carlisle.

And after a Christmas and New Years spent sweating through alcohol withdraw and cursing her own existence, she isn't eager to be in check of herself. Carlisle said they would get her sorted and outside of a few very intense heart-to-hearts and cleansing teas, the next-best thing for Ella - according to him - was to talk. About her feelings. About herself. About what's happened to her.

She can't just, like, be an ostrich and bury her head in the sand. It obviously doesn't work well for her. And so here she is, reluctantly getting counseling.

Very reluctantly.

"I hope you know this is a safe place, Ella. Everything you say here is strictly confidential."

"Then why are you writing it down? You don't _have_ to," she shoots back tersely.

"There isn't anything nefarious about the notes I keep for my records, I promise. However, if you prefer, I don't have to take notes. Although, what do you not like about note-taking in these sessions?"

Ella snorts. "Only that my entire shitty sob-story will be put to paper."

"Tell me about that."

"About what?"

"About why you think the story of your life is, as you say, a _shitty sob-story_."

Ella starts. She's always thought of it that way, so much so that being asked _why_ is startling. She licks her lips, then blows out a breath. "Well, isn't it? What _else_ could it be? Orphaned with no last name, parents dead because of _what_ I am, then run through the foster system with _return to sender_ stamped on my forehead until it was just _better_ being a runaway rather than - _be_ in those crappy excuses for foster homes," she sneers. "And if none of that was enough, I'm targeted by some old bitch again because of what I am and I - I'll admit, I didn't _deal_ well with what happened to me, but that's not…It's like I told Carlisle. I'm not _right_ in the head. I mean, where do you want to start? My problems have problems."

Kebi taps her pen against the paper, but she doesn't write anything down. "You seem to focus quite a bit on the negative."

Ella eyes her incredulously. "Wouldn't you?"

"I might," Kebi says. "You seem to have had a difficult life so far."

"Difficult is a word for it, sure."

The psychologist smiles again, very small and inclusive, like she and Ella are _in this together_. Which does more to dismantle that tall wall built up around Ella than should be possible. "Well, Ella, this _is_ your session. You can talk or you can choose not to talk at all. The hour is yours. I'm perfectly content to share the silence if you prefer."

Ella sighs deeply. "…No. I just…I don't know where to begin. It's all fucked up. The only good thing is Carlisle and I managed to almost fuck that up irreparably, too."

"Tell me about Carlisle," Kebi suggests gently.

"He's…the first person who ever, you know, _saw_ me. Helped just to help, because it was the right thing, because he cared. And that's - you don't get that a lot in the system. There's always strings. Carlisle didn't come with strings attached. He was just _there_ , always there."

"You speak in the past tense."

Ella lifts her shoulders, then drops her arms to her lap, shifting in the chair. "Well, yeah. Because it's not the same, anymore. We're not - our dynamic - changed completely after he was able to acknowledge his relationships with his, uh, girlfriend and daughter. Then it was different. He had other people, like."

"Carlisle changed, then?"

"Yes. No. I…it was me, I guess." Ella frowns self-consciously. "Carlisle was still _Carlisle_ , but I…didn't take the news well."

"How so?"

"Jealous. Of all of them."

"I see."

Ella closes her eyes, dread welling in her stomach. "I'm a terrible person, aren't I?"

"No, I don't think so. I think this all sounds very reasonable. Are you still jealous?"

The lack of judgment on Kebi's part is _seriously_ not what Ella is expecting. She stares for a moment before answering more truthfully than she planned. "Honestly, I don't think I can ever _not_ be jealous. But it wasn't just that - I mean, Carlisle betrayed me. He knew things about me that he kept to himself."

"Betrayal is a strong term. An even stronger emotion," Kebi says leadingly.

"It's _true,_ though. He lied by omission and that's…it's not right."

Kebi nods thoughtfully. "Do you still feel betrayed by Carlisle? By his knowledge or his relationships with others?"

She shakes her head, plucking at the fray of fabric in her black, paint-splattered jeans. "No, I don't. Not really. He had his reasons. Not very _good_ reasons, but reasons all the same. And he's still _here_ for me. I haven't been, like, replaced. I know that now. I was stupid before for not seeing it."

The pen taps against paper again. "So, you thought you were being replaced?"

"Obviously. Why would he want _me_ when he had an actual, real, perfect daughter in Alice? He didn't need the old model, anymore." Ella fusses with her hair, running a hand through it in self-directed agitation. "I thought, he replaced me and he's leaving me and I'm going to leave first. It's always better to leave first."

"You felt abandoned."

She nods slowly. "I guess, yeah. Yeah."

"But again, the past tense," Kebi observes.

The corners of Ella's lips lift, just the tiniest bit. "He didn't leave me, even after all the shit I've put him through these last few months. I think it's…sinking in that he's not _going_ to leave. Carlisle is here to stay and…that's kind of scary."

"Why is that?" Kebi wonders.

"Because people can hurt you more when they stay," Ella says plainly, a twist beneath her ribs. She wipes the tear that escapes from her cheek and marvels, because when did she start crying?

Kebi nudges the Kleenex across the coffee table.

Ella takes one.

* * *

 **A/N: And we're off on Part 5!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	57. part 5: 2: calls to home

**two**

 **calls to home**

* * *

Raven is waiting for her when she slumps out of the building, leaning back against the door with her head drawn back and her hands pressed over her eyes, both pushing against the swelling brought on by tears and hiding her eyes from sight. Her familiar has always been the unpredictable sort; as a bird, she spends a lot of time flying and minding her own business unless Ella specifically calls to her through their bond.

Ella has been calling on Raven more, recently. Relying on her more. Counting on Raven, as an extension of Ella and her magic, to _be there_ when Ella needs her for support. Lately, the idea of needing emotional support hasn't been as abhorrent.

So Raven pecks at her shin until Ella straightens, pulling herself together. She can't believe she cried in front of Kebi, or that she cried at all. But Ella is doing the _full commitment_ thing and honestly, with as sensitive as her magic is, it's very difficult for her not to give into the urge that Kebi's presence expires - that is, the vibe of _no judgment_ from Kebi makes it easy to give into the urge to open her mouth and get things off her chest.

She's glad that the first session happened before the start of the new semester, though.

Ella holds out her arm for Raven and her familiar wastes no time in perching just below her elbow with a ruffle of feathers. An ebony gaze meets hers. "Weren't you meant to call someone?"

"I didn't _forget_ ," Ella huffs, stepping onto the sidewalk and digging her phone out of her pocket. "I was just stalling."

"Very mature."

Ella scoffs, but doesn't bother disagreeing. Instead, she taps at the phone screen to dial out. The line rings only twice before there is an answer at the other end. "Hey, Dad."

 _"Ella! How are you?"_

Ella slows her gait, studying the way her footprints look in the muddled snow. Raven hops up to her shoulder, leaving Ella free to shrug even though Carlisle can't see her. "I'm holding up okay. Just had that session with your psychologist friend."

" _Just a colleague. It would be unethical for a friend of mine to counsel my daughter_ ," he chides automatically.

"Right."

" _Ah, how did it go?_ "

"Fine," she answers, then sighs _. Fine_ is a word that is used thoughtlessly, that is meant to offer noncommittal assurances to people who don't matter and who don't care; Carlisle is neither of those. He deserves more than _fine_ from Ella. _"_ Good. It was…it was good. I'm, uh, going back next week."

" _That's excellent, Ella, really. I'm very proud. I know how difficult this must be_."

"Yeah." She only feels slightly awkward with the notion of making someone _proud_ of her actions, especially actions that primarily benefit herself. It's kind of weird to be praised for going to therapy. Not bad, just not what she would expect. Or what she deserves, probably. "Dad? I'm just…really sorry about everything I put you through. I'm going to do better, I swear."

"I know, love. You have nothing to be sorry for. I love you."

"Love you, too. I'll see you this weekend."

* * *

 **A/N: That ethics thing is actually _a thing_ in psychology. Did you know it's also unethical for a psychologist to counsel someone who goes to the same church? It's called _dual relationships_ and _boy_ are they relevant. But then, ethics are always relevant if you ask me. This A/N, however, is not at all relevant to the story. Moving on.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	58. part 5: 3: shenanigans

**three**

 **shenanigans**

* * *

A tingle in the peripheral of her magical awareness - a whisper of a pulse on the wards around her room - alerts her that someone is looking for her. Ella has refined the wards placed around her dorm room, expanding them to encompass the entirety of Red Lily Hall (which is maybe a bit paranoid) and making them sensitive enough to sense the intention of people, specifically designing them so that she will know if someone is looking for her - and if they mean any harm (just in case). She's actually proud of these wards, how subtle and efficient they are.

And so it is with some relief that Ella looks up from deciphering the notes she'd taken in her Western Art History class - of which most is chicken scrawl and _a lot_ of dates - once it becomes apparent that someone is looking for her. Bree, actually.

Ella flicks her finger at the door just moments before Bree knocks, the door swinging open a touch harder than it should have. Bree is standing in the hallway, wide-eyed and then she mutters something that sounds like _freaky_ and although Ella doesn't have the ultra-keen hearing of werewolves, she levels Bree with a mildly offended look, anyway.

Bree just grins, striding into the room. "Come on, loser, we're going shopping."

"I think you might be mistaking me for someone who would fall for that line," Ella says as she turns back to her notes. She's happy to finally be taking art classes this semester, which is something of a miracle considering how she bombed at least half of her finals in December because of all of her _issues_. She hadn't done so bad as to need to retake any of the courses themselves, however, and that made it possible to load up her second semester with classes more appropriate for her art degree.

Ella hadn't been counting on the history classes, though. And she's nervous about the studio classes, one of which is overseen by Black, who she hasn't talked to since the last time she blew up at him. (He's friends with Carlisle; she wonders how much Carlisle has told Black about Ella's struggles, if Black had been used as a sounding board at all, and if he had, how much more awkward was it going to be?)

"You and Alice are no fun at all," Bree pouts. "Can nobody appreciate _Mean Girls_? Tina Fey is comedy gold, but only Peter will play along because _he's_ the only one in my circle of friends who is capable of appreciating classic pop culture."

"Is it really _classic_?"

"Bite your tongue. That movie is about to be on Broadway, so yeah, it's totally a classic," Bree says seriously. Or facetiously. It's difficult to tell. "Anyway, I really do need you to come with me."

"Why?" Ella sighs.

"It's a matter of extreme urgency," Bree says reassuringly.

As it turns out, it is not - in fact - a matter of extreme urgency, which rapidly becomes apparent after Bree has rounded up everyone she knows from their dorms and dragged them away from campus. At best, it's a matter of medium urgency and a very bad case of Bree not being very good at buying presents unless they're gag gifts or she forces Riley to buy them instead. And while Riley also tags along with the gang - _The Scoobies_ , according to Peter - to Charmstone proper, he mostly just trolls on all of Bree's suggestions. _Every_ suggestion, from clothes to books, citing the fact that Anthony wouldn't appreciate them for whatever reason. The one time he does make a suggestion - a simple leather notebook, because apparently Anthony _writes_ \- Bree loses whatever cool she normally possesses.

"You're just trying to make me look stupid," she accuses him with a flash of amber-gold eyes, her inner-wolf rising to the surface with her irritation.

And despite being completely human, Riley doesn't appear the least bit concerned as he adjusts his scarf around his tumbling honey-hued hair, which he shakes out of his eyes. Quite caustically, he says, "As if you need any help from _me_ to look stupid."

Bree legitimately _growls_ at her twin and Peter steps between them, laughing nervously. "Hey, okay, look, let's all just chill out, okay? Mucho chill to be had here. No need for shifting and sharp teeth and scaring the townspeople. Just _chillin_ ' _out max."_

Ella snorts. "What, and _relaxing all cool_?"

"Yes! Yes, that!" Peter exclaims, then looks at Bree with superiority, much to her annoyance. "And you told me that she doesn't play pop culture. Guess you just have to be special, _like me_."

"Idiot," Riley grouses, walking away from all of them to a different shop that looks far more promising than any of the ones Bree has tried so far. Alice is right on his heels, chatting about where he bought his scarf, and Jasper trails along behind her, positively making heart-eyes at her back even after she's spent the last hour ignoring him (after getting on his case for the joint he pocketed when he saw her earlier).

"Don't worry, Bree. You'll find something."

Bree huffs, stomping off after the others. "You don't understand, Peter. This isn't just _any_ birthday. This is Anthony's _twenty-first_ birthday."

He bobs his head. "Yeah, excellent, right? He can finally drink. Legally."

Ella rolls her eyes when both Peter and Bree give her the side-eye at the mention of alcohol. _Guess that answers the question about who knows exactly what my problem was last month_ , she laments sarcastically. "Don't mind me," she says dryly. "I'm not going to fall of the wagon just because you mention it."

Both breathe out a sigh of relief and she suddenly sympathizes with Riley's impatience for both Bree and Peter. _Ridiculous people_.

Bree shakes her head, then. "That's not what the big deal about the birthday is, though," she tells them as they catch up to the other half of their group. They enter the novelty shop that Riley had chosen and spend a short moment looking at all the interesting, one-of-a-kind items stacked on shelves and spread out on plain wood tables. "A werewolf's twenty-first birthday is a big deal if said werewolf is also the next in line to be alpha. It's when the, like, transfer of power is official, I guess? I don't know, I mean, I know _some_ but because I'm only ever going to be a beta wolf - hopefully - I won't know a lot about any of this unless there needs to be another alpha-in-training. Which, like, _God forbid_ , because I'm definitely not alpha material."

"I second that," Riley says from somewhere in the shop.

"Shut _up_!" Bree calls out immediately.

A distant thought surfaces in Ella's mind. "Oh, I know what you're talking about," she says, making a face. "Yet another full moon ritual."

"Well, this one is less violent, I think. Also consensual."

"Thanks for that."

"Anytime." Bree smiles brightly.

Peter scratches his head with a backscratcher he's picked up off the shelf, the claws shaped like a bear's paw. "So, like, what does that mean for your brother?"

Bree shrugs. "He becomes an alpha wolf in his own right. Even if he _does_ have to be deferential to Mom, he gets to put together his own pack."

"Whoa," he breathes in excitement. "Are you going to be in his instead of your mom's, then?"

Bree throws her hands in the air. " _Ideally_! But, like, that's why the present is super important. I have to get it just right or he won't take me seriously when I ask after the full moon."

"That's a lot of pressure for a birthday present."

"You're telling me," Bree bitches. "And he's, like, the hardest person to shop for. I mean, all he does is _read_ and everyone has made it perfectly clear that I'm crap at buying books for gifts, so."

Alice turns from the table of ceramic figurines she'd been examining. "To be fair, you did buy me a book called _The Complete Worst Case Scenario Survival Guide_. And the college edition."

"It was buy-one-get-one," Bree defends.

"When I was ten, you got me one called _All My Friends Are Dead_ ," Jasper adds helpfully.

Bree points a finger at him. "It was about dinosaurs and you were still in your dinosaur phase. I stand by that gift."

"Our sixteenth birthday, I unwrapped _The Zombie Survival Guide_ ," Riley cites without humor.

Bree's smile is sharp. "Because you're _human_ , brother dear."

"And because you know zombies freak me out."

Peter straightens up. "They do?"

Riley ignores him, shoving something into Bree's hands. "Since you clearly can't be trusted to find a present yourself, just give him this," he tells her. It's a journal of some sort, bound in fabric designed to look like wood, with the words _WRITER'S BLOCK_ stamped right on the front.

Bree hefts the weight skeptically. "Are you sure? This looks like something I'd actually pick out."

"Yes," Riley agrees. "Only it isn't tasteless."

Bree makes a face, but she buys the journal, begging the shopkeeper to gift wrap it because Bree evidently can't be trusted to do that, either. "I'm so relieved to have this done," she says as she watches the journal be wrapped in shiny navy paper.

"Aren't you cutting it close, though?" Alice asks.

"Not at all," Bree disagrees.

And at the same time, Riley says, "His birthday is _today_."

Ella stares.

"You know, we still have, like, three hours before the party," Bree says defensively, holding the newly-wrapped gift to her chest as she marches out of the shop. "Three entire hours. That's plenty of time."

"You do this every year," Peter says in amazement.

"Every year," Jasper confirms with a laugh. "It's never not funny."

Peter and Jasper high-five, tittering about other presents in Bree's terribly torrid gift-giving history. Ella listens to the growing list of absurd gifts for a moment before she says to Bree, "Don't ever buy me anything."

"You're all mean," Bree decides. "Really, very mean. You know, I don't know why I - Oh!" Bree's head snaps up and then to the side. She smiles widely, eyes glimmering. "Oh, opportune moment! _Hey!_ "

Everyone follows her line of sight across the town square and just before Bree dashes off - ignoring every possible traffic law, Ella is sure - the burnt-toffee curls of one Anthony Masen become visible, glinting in the winter sun. He's with three other people, two blonde girls and a stockier red-head laughing at Anthony's abrupt unease. Ella watches as Bree runs up to her older brother, wasting no time in shoving his present right in his face; he takes it with visible trepidation, which can be seen even this far away.

Ella bursts out laughing, lips spreading in an effervescent smile -

And across the town square, through the ash-wood columns of the gazebo and over the hedges, Anthony Masen looks right at her, verdant-edged eyes flashing lupine gold.

And he smiles, too, a quirk of his lips that teeters more toward a _smirk_ than anything else.

She has a near-visceral urge to draw that expression for reasons that she doesn't even understand.

* * *

 **A/N: All real books, I promise, and definitely ones that I would seriously consider buying for my own brother because for one of my birthdays, he gave me this poster of a cartoonish unicorn farting rainbows and one day - _one day_ \- I _will_ get my revenge.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	59. part 5: 4: german chocolate

**four**

 **german chocolate**

* * *

Ella is eating a slice of a truly sublime German chocolate cake. Or rather, Ella is placing the majority of her attention on eating a slice of a truly sublime German chocolate cake as she sits at a table in the back of Sam's Diner, which has been pulled adjacent to a round booth to accommodate their large group of nine. The alternative is engaging in a continuation of the gauche encounter that had occurred after Bree gracelessly thrust herself into the middle of her older brother's group of friends under the pretense of giving him a birthday present.

(Ella is relatively certain that the real motivation has something to do with Bree's plan to get in her brother's good graces to join his pack in a few weeks; she's also relatively certain that Bree's methods are not the best to accomplish said goal.)

Ella soon learns that Jasper has a sister and that both Peter and Alice have cousins, all of whom are very close to Anthony. Extended families and siblings are apparently _a thing_ in Charmstone, one that Ella finds disarming. And while it's certainly _interesting_ , it doesn't make actually meeting these people any less awkward. Because while it doesn't matter that the relationships between all of these people overlap, it does matter that _Ella's_ relationships - interactions - with some of them rest like a black mark on her consciousness.

Lillian Hale is certainly something to see, a willowy girl of ash-blonde hair and sparkling sapphire eyes with a slick of bold lipstick to emphasize her perfect smile. She possesses the kind of confidence that crushes people beneath her heel, if she let it, if she wanted to. It a confidence that's just there in the way she focuses her big, bright blue eyes on whoever she's speaking to, in the no-nonsense mannerisms, in the way she holds her self with the absolute assurance that she _will_ be heard. She's not very much like Jasper at all; whereas Jasper rolls with the world, Lillian is the one spinning the world on its axis. She also doesn't tolerate being called by any variation of her first name (Rosalie, apparently).

"Ella, right? I've heard about you," she says, but there is _something_ lurking beneath her words that makes Ella weary.

It must be a family trait that runs on the Martin side, though, because it is Peter's cousin that breaks up tension. "Liam Martin, at your service," he greets with a sly wink. He has a shag of vivid red hair, not unlike a carrot, and eyes the same shade of lapis lazuli as Peter, though unlike Peter, Liam is padded with generous muscles and a shift in his bearing that boasts of athleticism. "Don't mind Lils, she's just trying to perfect her intimidation tactics. She's pre-law, did you know? Top of her class and -"

"Liam, you have to stop doing the boasting thing," Lillian interrupts primly.

He frowns at her. "I don't see why."

"Because we're not together anymore and it's weird that you're bragging about your ex-girlfriend even after three years. We've talked about this," she tells him.

Liam doesn't appear put off. He shrugs, a very _Peter-like_ gesture. "You're still my friend. I do the same for Vera, though we've certainly never so much as kissed - oh, well there was that time in kindergarten, actually. Point still stands, though."

As Lillian shakes her head, a very familiar voice pops into the conversation brightly. Vera is just as pretty and blonde as Ella remembers her, with eyes of a dark mossy green, and a sly, knowing smile as she looks right at Ella and says, "But we all know I don't play for your team, Liam."

Alice wrinkles her nose. "Vera, please tell me you didn't."

Vera winks. "Oh, but cousin, I did. We had fun at that party, didn't we Ella?"

Ella's memory supplies her with the taste of sweat and saltwater taffy on her tongue, along with the dizzy sugar-high from the faerie leaf and the way she couldn't remember anything from that night except for uncomfortable snippets. _And that hickey_. And Ella has no idea how to answer, because in the span of a few seconds, Anthony's somewhat open expression shut down - his expression, directed at Vera, is stormy with disapproval - and Bree suddenly looks nervous and the entire group is silent, waiting on Ella's reply.

Her mouth opens and out tumbles a snappy and short, "No." Her magic flares for a moment, a shift of the wind that feels _hot_ like a desert, which she locks down through sheer force of will.

Vera doesn't stop smiling.

Ella looks away, retreating into herself. She didn't need the reminder and she definitely doesn't need Vera acting like it isn't any big deal when it _was a huge deal to Ella_. It's like a walk of shame, or something.

But Peter, bless him, heaves his arm over her shoulder, loudly proclaiming, "Well, as fun as this has been, we've got to make like a banana and split. I mean, I don't know about any of you, but _wow_ , are classes already super brutal, or what? Like, I should really be studying, in fact, we should all be studying or doing something that at least looks responsible because-"

"Oh, don't leave yet!" Vera exclaims. "We were just about to go to Sam's to celebrate since tonight's shindig is family-only and now that we have a present, we can probably convince Emily and Sam to bring out cake."

"Plus, the birthday song," Liam adds.

Anthony scowls and Ella tries to think of any excuse to make herself scarce. She's uncomfortable under Vera's gaze, knowing that Vera had touched and kissed her while Ella hadn't been right in the head, while they'd _both_ been fucked up on faerie drugs. She can sense the tension in the group, see the way the lifelines of some are taut like a bowstring - and Anthony in particular, in spite of that smile-smirk he'd shared with her just minutes before, is not giving off very welcoming vibes. And she doesn't know _why_ it strikes her with guilt, like she's done something wrong _to him_ , but it does and she wants to get away before the self-deprecation can begin in earnest.

But it isn't that easy, because Vera's exuberance somehow convinces half the group that her idea is a good one and in short order, they are all trooping to the town's main eatery, all of the awkward swept neatly, if not temporarily, under the rug.

 _I should have just left_ , Ella thinks as she stabs at the cake, studiously avoiding both Anthony and Vera. Or more like ignoring Vera outright every time the other girl tries to start a conversation, which is quickly derailed by either Alice - no surprise there - or Peter - who might be the best buffer anyone could ask for.

In deference to her obvious discomfort, he even lets her eat the remaining half of his slice of cake.

(And later, as they are walking back to Viridity after he makes up a story on the spot about a paper he _just remembered is due tomorrow_ , he thrusts his hands into his pockets and laments, "We are never doing that again. Like, _never_. Friend groups shouldn't mix, okay, it's about as weird as Lannister incest."

And Ella agrees wholeheartedly.)

* * *

 **A/N: Peter is the actual best. Also, lots of cousins.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	60. part 5: 5: ley me down

**five**

 **ley me down**

* * *

Ella and Carlisle have spent the past two weekends surveying the ley lines.

Well. _Ella_ has spent the past two weekends surveying the ley lines and _Carlisle_ has been updating an ages-old map of Charmstone that specifically features the natural magical currents and the arrangements of the wards, tutting over the changes that Ella reports from what she is able to see and sense. It is a time consuming task and one that should have been done much sooner - but Ella had wasted a month wallowing in her trauma. Which nobody is going to _blame_ her for, or anything, and it isn't like the ley lines aren't trying to reset themselves via Mother Nature.

It's just that Ella sees it as _her_ responsibility. A mess she can clean up. Or, as Kebi points out, a healthy way to confront what happened to her, a sort of catharsis.

The point is that the ley lines are in need of help, a nudge in the right direction. Which Ella can definitely supply.

Her preoccupation with the ley lines is as good a reason as any to make an excuse any time the mention of group outings come up, which, like, _bonus_. Much as it irks her, Ella is _mortified_ by the awkwardness that happened on Anthony's birthday, especially Vera's not-so-subtle come-ons and the reminder of Ella's _Descent Into Darkness_ (trademarked by Peter, who refuses to call her mental deterioration anything else). Mostly, though, Ella is ready to deal with the weird sludge-like feeling at certain points in the ley lines; her magic is sensitive enough to the little fractures in the system that she can feel them clear across town without even trying.

(It seems she is becoming intimately acquainted with the Charmstone leys, in a way that is both profound and bittersweet. In the back of her mind, there is always Raven's voice, telling her that because of the sigils scarred into her skin, Ella can just _tap_ right into the ley lines with nothing more than a thought and that isn't - it's too much. But. If she _had_ to do it, she'd rather the ley lines were healthy.)

Plus - she needs the local magical currents running smoothly if she wants to make a magician's glass, which she _totally_ views as a necessity. She and Carlisle have been researching that, as well. For all that literature on magicians is sparse, there are a handful of very helpful books dating back to the dawn of history that focus exclusively on foci and the mystery of the magician's glass. Making one is easier than either of them thought it might be, as long as ley lines and a new moon are accessible. In theory, at least.

 _("Can you wait that long?" Carlisle had asked once it became apparent that the new moon element of the ritual wasn't optional and that Ella would - at best - have to wait another two weeks before creating her foci._

 _And Ella had shrugged. "I guess I'll have to.")_

The fact remains that regardless of whatever unforeseen complications arise in the creation of one, both Carlisle and Ella agree that she _needs_ one. Desperately. Because her magic is now so entirely reliant on her mental and emotional states, it's far too easy for a stray mood or thought to spark her magic into action. For the most part, she's been lucky, but Alice is growing very annoyed with the shortages - water, electricity, _air_ \- that douse Red Lily Hall when Ella's magic gets away from her. With a second foci, one attuned to Ella's magical signature, she hopes that it will take more effort for her magic to surge.

That's the goal. And it can't be reached without the ley lines intact, so on the weekend of January's full moon, Ella finds herself hiking through the Charmstone forest with Carlisle. They are both dressed for the snowy, frigid weather; Carlisle has a holly-berry red muffler covering him from neck to nose and an olive parka with a furred hood drawn over his head, while Ella has elected to layer herself in two sweaters, combat boots, her fringe leather jacket, and a thin scarf. Carlisle is still the one who is worse off.

"Dad, just let me cast a warming charm," she says once his chattering teeth become audible.

It takes him a few tries, but he finally gets out yet another refusal. "You aren-n-n't a-a-a c-commodity."

He's been telling her this ever since he started training her in magic over the summer and has redoubled his efforts at reminding her that her magic isn't some kind of good that can be borrowed or sold or whatever, that _she_ has value that is worth more than the usefulness of her magic. She's pretty sure his commitment to this idea is in part due to his concerns that she hadn't been raised to value herself - well-being, life, happiness, all of the above - and also because it's, like, a very _druid_ thing. Like, druids have less magic in general than any other magic-users, except for hedge-witches, who can only cast magic in groups (covens) of at least three or more. Druids can cast magic by themselves, but anything more complicated that parlor tricks, and it becomes a matter of brewing potions and long, drawn-out rituals and all other kinds of requirements that make it difficult for druids to not cringe at how easy people with greater magical cores have it in casting. That's why they're the keepers of the knowledge, the teachers of theories.

Those who can't, teach. Ella's one-hundred percent certain that the druids came up with the phrase.

Still, she rolls her eyes at his stubborn rejection, which is sweet for being grounded in his principles, but ultimately unnecessary. "And _you_ clearly aren't cut out for the cold," she counters, finally just waving her hand in his direction and silently incanting for _warmth_. She doesn't even need to sketch a rune in the air anymore, like before, or even _think_ the rune in question; she just wills Carlisle to be cozily warm and he is. It's oddly satisfying, doing magic without overpowering the spell - but even for as casually as she cast, she tried not to put too much power behind it, just in case her magic took _warm_ to mean _bathe father-figure in dragon fire_. Carlisle stops shivering immediately, though, so she considers it a angst-free victory.

"Thank you, Ella."

"I just don't think Esme would love you as much if you came home looking like a frozen version of Violet Beauregarde." At Carlisle's furrowed brow, Ella sighs. "You know, the girl from Willie Wonka and The Chocolate Factory, the one who chews the gum incessantly and then blows up into a massive blueberry. Ring any bells?"

"That was a book, wasn't it?"

"I'm spending too much time with Peter," Ella mutters. "To clarify, you were turning _blue_ and that's _bad._ "

"Ah. I see."

Ella's pretty sure he doesn't, but she lets it go in favor of continue their trek further into the woods. It might have been easier to use one of the convergences closer to actual civilization, like the ones in the Charmstone town square or the triangular courtyards on the Viridity campus, but Ella doesn't exactly want an audience. Their third-nearest option, unfortunately, was used by the hag and as Ella also has no desire to visit the scene of the crime, so to speak, that leaves Carlisle and Ella tromping three miles out into the forest, closer to Whiteface Mountain, which is where the next-nearest ley convergence is. Such a _pain_ in the ass.

It is, however, worth it once Ella locates another triangular intersection - north, south, east - of ley lines and it takes hardly any thought at all to _sink_ right into that resonance. Her magic lights up with a fierce joy, a sense of kinship with the natural currents of the world. Magic itself thrums right through her and Ella lowers herself to her knees, eyes already closed.

Carlisle's voice comes from far away. "Do you know what to do? I know we've gone over the process, but theory is very different from application and -"

"I've got this," she murmurs.

Ella _does_ have this. An innate sense of what to do is already overtaking her, wind rushing around her in a circling breeze that both pushes Carlisle a safe distance away and clears the heavy snow from where she is kneeling. Ella leans forward as she sits in the eye of her very own tornado, reaching out with flat, bare palms to press against the yellowed grass until she is bent over herself, forehead pressed to the ground. Her fingers are burrowing just barely beneath the dirt when the natural current surges - and it feels like it's in her heart, in her throat, overtaking everything as she sinks deeper and deeper and -

 _There. Right there_ , she thinks as she finds a fracture. Ella travels along the magical currents, her magic speeding forward and wrapping around the discordant ley line, straightening and strengthening it. It is a constant back-channel feedback loop as over and over, Ella sends her magic out, spreading through the ley lines and manually fixing what the hag had damaged. But she isn't expending actual energy or magic; everything she puts out, she gets back in return.

And as she's there, she lets her magic fizz around the wards on the town, imbuing them with additional strength, with better layers of protection, with things that the wards have needed for years - but that nobody else could have possibly sensed or noticed or addressed.

And when she pulls back, revitalized and dizzy from the endorphin rush, it is to find that she and Carlisle are not alone in the woods, anymore. Time has passed since she began, her feet numb and knees aching in protest; when she sits up, her spine cracks delightfully and she must spend several long moments leashing her magic from where it crackles with great pressure in the space around her. Bit by bit, the wind dies down, the air pressure becomes manageable, the charge of magic fades, and Ella has forcefully locked down her magic. The sigils on her arms burn a bit in protest; it had been freeing to just let her magic _go_ and containing it is a special kind of hell.

She opens her eyes, expecting to see Carlisle - and finds him with two other beings, instead. One is Elisabeth Masen, in all of her nude glory, utterly unbothered by the chill in the air as she speaks in quiet tones with Carlisle. The other is Anthony Masen, still shifted to a wolf and staring with luminescent amber-green eyes as he sits on his haunches.

Ella waits to feel embarrassed, like she had the last time they saw each other, but all she feels is relief. The ley lines are fixed, the wards are stronger than ever, and the weight of those worries are lifted off her shoulders. (And Kebi had been right - it was cathartic, doing this, confronting this.)

Carlisle notices that she is sat up and rushes over to help her stand. She leans on him only for balance, sending him a small smile. "I'm alright, Dad."

He still looks concerned, like he's waiting for her to faint or swoon from exhaustion, or something. "Everything fixed, then?"

"Just the way they should be," she answers.

"That was impressive," Elisabeth Masen comments, tilting her head in appraisal. "We felt the shift in the air on our patrols and came to investigate, expecting the worst, only to find you here. Carlisle tells me that you were repairing the ley lines. I didn't realize they were damaged."

"Bruised might be a better description," Ella says. "They were fixing themselves and would have eventually. I just sped up the process."

"You're very powerful."

Ella thinks she should probably preen at the observation, because it sounds almost like a compliment, but she doesn't. She's not the least bit proud of the way she became this powerful. One day, she might be proud of what she has done with this power, but that day isn't today.

Elisabeth stands taller, subtly shifting to something more formal. "Isobella Cullen, I would like to personally extend an invitation that you join myself and other community leaders at the town counsel meetings. You should have a seat at the table."

Ella blinks, very briefly flicking her eyes to Anthony, who perks his ears forward attentively. It isn't as if he can talk, or anything, but his lifeline is somehow _soft_ er than usual. And even as she absently wonders why she's looking for his _approval_ , she shakes her head at Elisabeth. "Why?"

Elisabeth's smile is enigmatic. "In Charmstone, the creatures with the most power represent their races, with the exception of the humans, who still hold elections for some God-awful reason. You should be representing the magic users."

* * *

 **A/N: Building for the rising action.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	61. part 5: 6: alice

**six**

 **alice**

* * *

Alice is spacing out. Which is odd enough because Alice is the most _always-on_ person Ella has ever met in her life - but it's even stranger because usually when Alice runs these monthly meetings on the Red Lily Hall common floor, which are supposed to be a safe-space forum for any dorm issues, Alice is taking notes on a pastel pink legal pad of any issues that need addressing.

The legal pad is there on Alice's lap and she has a pen in hand, but she isn't writing anything down while one of the sophomore girls moans about the hot water shortages in the morning, taking advantage of the full attention of the living room where girls are crowded around the coffee table. The last time this was brought up, Alice succinctly said, "If it's preferable I can always make up a bathroom schedule that we can all follow" and that had shut the topic down pretty quickly. This time, however, Alice is only dragging the nub of her pen across the paper in horizontal streaks, staring straight ahead with unfocused eyes, her clear-glossed lips just barely moving.

Bree nudges Ella with her knee, drawing her attention away from Alice's current oddities. Ella glances to the side, cocking her head to the side when Bree leans in, dropping her voice so as to not be overheard by the rest of the dorm. "Did I hear wrong, or is Alice saying something about kissing cousins?"

Ella represses her sigh. Being seated next to Alice - she had been late from the library and took the only available seat - means that it falls on Ella to suss out what Alice's issue is. Ella's hearing isn't as acute as a werewolf's, obviously, and if Bree can hear Alice, then so can the handful of other creatures in the room with keen senses. Ella is somehow not at all surprised to learn that Alice is muttering about _cousins_.

Still, as someone who has recently suffered what some might call a psychological break, Ella is a bit concerned about her sort-of-step-sister. She leans back toward Alice, trying to hear what Alice is saying and only catches a whispered, bleary declaration of, " _Cousins play two by two on the shore."_

Ella quirks a brow and straightens in her seat with a shake of her head. She's coming up blank. What kind of English lit classes is Alice taking this semester?

Still, she repeats what Alice has been saying as she remains lost in thought. Ella and Bree exchange a _look_.

"Weird, right?" Bree asks under her breath. "I mean, this isn't the first time I've heard her talking to herself about cousins this week, but seriously - in the middle of _her own meeting_?"

Bree makes a solid point.

Ella just frowns, peering at Alice more closely. Her lifeline is fuzzed with gossamer smoke, the pale grey strong but indistinct, and she has to wonder if this is some kind of _banshee_ thing. She should probably call Esme. Or at least Carlisle.

But when the meeting breaks up, Alice snaps out of whatever thoughtless trance she'd been in and looks like she's right back to normal - and Ella lets the matter rest.

For now.

* * *

 **A/N: Getting a clue!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	62. part 5: 7: honestly, this is honesty

**seven**

 **honestly, this is honesty**

* * *

Ella stays behind after class, lingering in the studio ripe with a scent of turpentine and the distinct scent of oil paints. Her hands are streaked with all the dusky-dark colors she'd been using to recreate the still-life study of fruit in the middle of a circle of easels, her own rendition decidedly shadowed. It isn't the first time she will bemoan the requirement that studio classes are so structured, that it's paint fruit or skip for the day, and all she really wants to do is go hunt down a cup of coffee.

The paint has dried stiff on her skin, sticking in the creases of her fingers. She doesn't mind the paint or the way it clings to her - it covers up the scarred sigils on the tops of her hands. She's in the habit lately of wearing fingerless gloves and long sleeved shirts, but she can't wear gloves while she's painting, doesn't like the way the paintbrush slips too easily in her grip. If she's messier with her paint than she should be when the gloves are off, then Ella doesn't think anyone could blame her.

And it's her prerogative if she doesn't want to look at the silvery sigils.

Just as it is her prerogative that she stays seated on the stool as the rest of her classmates filter out of the studio. Her jaw is tight as she watches Black stroll around the room, slowly righting the studio to his exact standards. He can't have missed that she's loitering.

"Do you plan on sitting there all day?"

"No," she says lowly, turning her head back to the canvas in front of her.

It's been _awkward_ since the semester began, at least for Ella. She and Black didn't have a great last parting and while he may not appear bothered by it, _she_ definitely is. Because Black knew all those weeks ago what Kebi reminds her every session.

For as much as Ella has a _thing_ about truth and honesty - she is hella guilty of not living up to what she demands of others. Especially when it comes to be honest _to herself_.

And Black could tell just by looking at her, just by looking at her work. Regardless of how defensive and sure she was, regardless of the medium, he knew. He knew what Carlisle couldn't see because of how well she hid it; he knew what Ella didn't even _know_ because of how deep her denial ran.

And she doesn't know if it's because Black is a shaman and so maybe he's more attuned to things like that, being a soulwalker and a shapeshifter, or if he's just exceptionally wise or if he's _really_ good at bluffing. It doesn't matter how he knew, really.

What matters is that she owes him an apology, or at least an explanation.

"I do have other classes, you know," Black says expectantly. He fusses with the bowl of fruit, adjusting the arrangement to accommodate the shift of the sun through the window. Then, he takes an apple, bites into it, and places it back into the bowl.

"Why did you do that?"

Black's fathomless eyes land on her solemnly. "To shake things up. I expect you know a bit about that, Ella. Though I'm also sure that you haven't stayed to question my teaching methods."

She curls her fingers into her palms, breathing out. "You were right," she says after a moment. "About my art, I mean. About how it wasn't honest because _I_ wasn't honest."

Black turns, folding his arms over his chest, nodding slowly in encouragement.

"I'm not nearly as angry as I think I am. I'm…I've been scared and jealous and lonely, and maybe some of it has been anger, but I've been hiding behind being angry for so long that I hadn't even realized that's what I was doing."

Black looks at her thoughtfully for a long while, silence stretching in the cavernous studio. He seems to reach some conclusion, because he rounds the side of her easel and stares at her canvas, at the darkly vibrant fruit, the blurred contrast of the shadows bleeding over the edges of oranges and apples, of the way she has interpreted the bowl a gaping, even darker void. She looks at it again, too, and feels that sense of being on the edge of toppling over. And it's _fruit_ , right, but it also looks like how she felt for so long.

"I'm trying," she tells him. "I'm trying to be honest about what I feel - at the very least, honest to myself."

Black cracks the barest hint of a smile. "This interpretation is very unique."

"Thank you."

"Keep up the good work."

Ella smiles.

* * *

 **A/N: Art is all about feeling. I mean, forget all that tosh about "real" art, because all art is real and we only like what we like as a culture because of a psychological phenomenon called mere-exposure effect (which will just ruin everything for you so beware if you're a curious Googler). For me at least, the best art is what makes a statement or makes you _feel_ something. And as I fancy Ella a contemporary artist...Anyway. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	63. part 5: 8: couch time

**eight**

 **couch time**

* * *

Ella stares at the ceiling for a very long moment, lounging back on the loveseat in Kebi's office, before she heaves a great breath and finally says, "I feel like all I do lately is apologize to people and let me tell you, I am not very good at them."

"What are you apologizing for?"

She doesn't look to Kebi when she shrugs. "Shit that I've done. All the ways I messed up last month…all the ways I messed up before."

Kebi's pen clicks, but the sound of it scratching across paper goes unheard. She still isn't taking notes of Ella's sessions. Keeping a promise. "What was it about your behavior that was so wrong you feel the _need_ to make amends? Is it really so bad?"

Incredulity and shame bubble between her ribs - and the emotion is strong enough that the lights flicker overhead just once before she forcefully puts a cap on her magic, twisting her only magician's glass around and around on her finger. "I got _high_. I drank nothing but liquor for at least a week solid. I went to a faerie-hosted party and…I mean, I don't even know who I kissed or even if kissing was all I did, you know? I couldn't account for myself, so I pushed all my friends away, all the people that give a damn, and just decided to blackout instead."

"Hmm."

Ella finally turns her head, peering at Kebi from her reclined position. She frowns. "You're humming. Why?"

Kebi's expression turns just the tiniest bit pensive. "Ella, I have to ask…Do you feel bad about the way you behaved because it hurt someone else, or because it hurt you after the fact?"

"I…" Ella stops, suddenly unsure of the answer on the tip of her tongue, which is a emphatic agreement that hurting other people is the worst thing about what she'd done. But this is her third session with Kebi and she's finally migrated to the _couch_ instead of the uncomfortable chair she started in and the honest, harder answer is the one that she ends up expressing. "Both. I mean, it's shitty that I was screwing with other people, but it's also shitty that I was screwing with _myself_. It's like, I woke up every morning and if I remembered what I'd done the night before, then I was just eaten up inside by guilt. And then to get rid of the guilt, I would go and get mind-numbingly wasted again…and then I would feel guilty again."

"A cycle of guilt, it sounds like."

"Yeah."

Kebi taps her pen against the paper, a noise that is somehow thoughtful, but there is a gleam of knowledge in her eye, something that feels like a very muted _aha_ moment. "Tell me about the other emotions you feel. You mentioned feeling betrayed the last time we spoke. Is it safe to say you've also felt angry?"

Ella sighs and it feels like the release on a tightly-screwed valve."All the time. Just…all the time."

"Let's talk about that."

"Yeah. Okay."

* * *

 **A/N: And another sub-plot that we're getting closer to resolving. Sort of.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	64. part 5: 9: the scoobies

**nine**

 **the scoobies**

* * *

It's a Friday in late January and the gang is gathered around the back booth at Sam's Diner. Emily, the djinn-touched cook, has just dropped off a round of bubbling hot chocolate - save for Ella's piping hot mug of coffee - and gloriously warm sugar cookies. They are listening to Peter try to convince Ella to enchant his pen to write what is dictated and while the idea of making a real-life _Harry Potter_ relic is tempting, all of Peter's arguments include his ability to slack off in class.

"No," she says around the lip of the mug.

His lapis lazuli eyes widen dramatically. "But _Ella_ , just think for a moment. Okay? Okay, while I see that you might be hesitant to give me the leeway to snooze in class just because my pen can take notes for me, you _have_ to be moved by the idea of how lucrative this could be."

Now, her interest is piqued. "I'm listening."

Riley snorts. Although why he feels as though he can judge when he's been making googly-eyed at Brendon Urie's profile in Playbill, especially in the _Kinky Boots_ get up, she has no idea. And why _Peter_ doubts Riley's sexual orientation is beyond her, because it isn't like Riley _hides_ that he's about as straight as a broken arrow. She puts it down to willful ignorance and the fact that Peter himself is so far in the closet he might as well buy real estate.

"I knew you'd see things my way! You're a smart cookie," Peter says proudly, brandishing an actual cookie in front of her face, right before he takes a big bite and begins talking as he chews. "See, see, look. It's about supply and demand, right? And let me tell you, there is definitely a demand for something like this. Early classes are so _brutal_ , right, and with a pen that takes notes for students, I don't see how you'd ever be short of cash. _And_ your overhead costs would be so low that you'd basically just be charging for the effort to cast a spell - and you'd make major _bank_. Major."

"Isn't it a little weird that you're trying to capitalize on _my_ magic?" she asks, thinking of Carlisle's insistence that she _isn't_ a commodity, which is a notion that Peter apparently does not share.

"Ella," Peter says seriously. "You could have your very own Magic Box."

She stares at him a little blankly.

"You know, from _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_?" He gestures widely to the table, at she and himself and Riley. "I mean, obviously, we're not a perfect rendition because we don't have all of the Scoobies in the gang yet _but_ , like, come on. Obviously I'm the loveable best friend who inevitably, if not accidentally, saves the day and _you_ are basically Buffy…and Willow…" He trails off in consideration.

"Idiot," Riley says, flipping a page.

"Whatever. Like I said, it's not _perfect_ but my point still stands. Charmstone _needs_ your products, okay, and I maintain that a decent standby if your art career goes south is running a magic shop with, like, actual magic things. Not that weird herbal place the hedge-witches run where you can smell what they're toking up on every Thursday from half a block away."

Amused by his dedication to this not-so-awful idea, Ella shrugs a shoulder. "It's just an enchanted pen. But I do feel like I should be offended that you think I couldn't support myself as an artist."

Peter sputters. "That's not what I meant and you know it!"

"Maybe."

He grins boyishly. "You're totally considering it, aren't you?"

Ella sips her coffee.

Riley closes his Playbill. "It wouldn't be just a pen, though, would it? I mean, why stop at pens?"

Peter slaps his hands on the table. "Yes, exactly. See? You can enchant all sorts of things and sell them."

"I'm still in school, taking classes just like you," she points out halfheartedly. But inside, she's doing a few calculations. All of her savings from working at the Student Center wouldn't last forever; she needs a way to make cash so she didn't have to ask Carlisle to support her. That's the last thing she wants to do, too used to figuring out how to provide for herself that asking for help feels _wrong_.

But to sell her magic? She isn't sure about that, either.

"There is one problem, though," she says. "A real obvious one."

"Oh really?" Peter challenges.

"Well," she sighs. "I'm not a business major. You're going to be a historian and - no offense - Riley doesn't seem the type suited to customer service. So even if I wanted to, and I'm not saying that I do, I wouldn't know the first thing about running a business."

Peter snaps his fingers. "I have the perfect solution. It just so happens that my cousin Liam is majoring in business. We Martins have a history of being entrepreneur, you know."

Ella frowns at him. She has the sinking suspicion that nothing about this conversation was as hapless as it appeared - and wouldn't that be just like Peter, hiding a brilliant mind behind affable dorkiness and a carefree attitude? It took her most of an entire semester to learn that he's a lot smarter than he let on, after all. Against all reasoning and the motormouth and the heart-on-his-sleeve thing, Peter is a tough nut to crack.

She doesn't have a chance to respond, though, because there is a clamor as the door to the diner swings open, emitting an excited Bree and a much more subdued Alice. A handful of customers cringe at the way the door crashes against the wall and an audible sigh is heard from the kitchen. Bree's eyes are positively glowing a lupine amber as she rushes to the back booth and throws herself against the table.

"I'm in!" she announces too loudly.

Ella winces. She scoots over to make room for Alice, since it doesn't seem like Bree is going to sit down; Alice lowers herself onto the bench, gimlet eyes a touch vacant. _Banshee things again_ , Ella thinks. She can't figure out how she's supposed to ask Alice about that - they're in the middle of some unspoken truce since Alice snapped her out of her funk the previous month and now that Alice is dealing with something, that should mean that Ella owes her a return on the favor.

Right?

But Ella has never been good with _people_. Alice least of all. And it isn't like she and Alice cross paths _that_ often. There hasn't been a good time.

Maybe Ella needs to _make_ the time.

Meanwhile, Peter is matching Bree's enthusiasm. "In what?"

Bree beams, showing off her half-shifted teeth, a snapshot of over-sharp canines. "Anthony's pack! He's _accepted_ me as his beta!"

Right - the full moon has passed and Anthony Masen is officially his own alpha, fully entitled to his own pack. Would he be turning people, or were there enough wolves in the larger Masen pack that some migration was inevitable? Ella doesn't know; pack politics must be worse than _actual_ politics.

"Only because he's desperate," Riley mutters.

" _Shut up, Riley_ ," Bree growls.

"We all know he needs at least three betas to make a pack," he continues blithely. "What were you, the last pick of the draft?"

"I should _bite_ you," Bree threatens.

Riley sniffs. "Please, you know how Mom feels about that. I'm only human, remember?"

Bree bares her teeth, then hip-checks Peter so she can slide into the booth. "Anyway, what are we talking about?"

"We're a Scooby Gang and Ella is opening her own Magic Box."

Bree winkles her nose. "I think this makes me Oz, right? The token werewolf with excellent musical taste."

"Yes!" Peter agrees.

And Riley snipes, "You call your taste in music _excellent_?"

"You're walking on thin ice, Lin Manuel Miranda," Bree warns, wagging her finger at her twin.

Riley smirks.

Shaking her head, Ella pushes her mug across the table. "As entertaining as all of this is, I've got to bolt before I'm late."

Without even being asked, Alice slides off the seat to let Ella out and for just a moment, their eyes meet - and Ella feels a deadly chill race down her spine. She shakes her head, standing, then watches Alice for a moment, head tilted to the side.

 _Yeah, we definitely need to talk about this_ , she decides. _Even if I have to pry it out of her with magic_.

"What? Hey, where do you have to go?" Peter asks, leaning half-way across the table.

Ella adjusts her leather jacket. "A meeting before the actual town meeting," she tells them with a shrug. "Apparently, I'm a community leader for all the Charmstone magic-users, or something. I don't know. The last leader was a witch and she just gave birth to twins, so I'm taking over. For reasons."

"So _cool_ ," Peter breathes in awe.

Riley glares at him, his aura pulsing green with envy.

Ella just barely stops herself from snorting but as much as she would like to stick around and watch all this interpersonal drama unfold, she really does have a meeting to get to.

* * *

 **A/N: Please excuse the gratuitous Buffy references. Actually, no, don't excuse them _. Embrace them_.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	65. part 5: 10: in charge

**ten**

 **in charge**

* * *

She's almost late, because of course she is. And alright, honestly, it's a little uncomfortable to walk into the mostly-empty meeting hall with only half the tables unfolded and a handful of the town's most prominent, powerful people cloistered in a loose circle near the podium. They all turn to look at her when she slides the door open and she does a quick scan.

Mayor Newton is already sweating. She's starting to think he either has some kind of chronic condition _or_ he's truly just that freaked out by the supernatural people living in his town. Maybe a bit of both.

Ella is the representative for magic-users for the entirety of Charmstone, which kind of seems more than a little overwhelming. Because that's _a lot_ of people. The hedge-witches and druids and average witches and warlocks, most of whom are all older than her but less powerful. But because of how much magic _she_ has, she's the de facto leader and that has to be ruffling a few feathers. Probably explains why a pinched-face warlock is sitting in the corner, making angry eyes at her. She thinks, _I could take you out with a flick of my pinky_ and wonders how that would go over with the rest of this serious-faced crowd. Probably not well. She tramps down on her magic, judiciously avoiding the urge to let her magic surge and show them all who is who - based on what Carlisle has said, her magical blow ups while training and her resetting of the ley lines have given everyone a clue about just what she can do. Pride has no place in this meeting. Unfortunately.

She doesn't know the woman representing the harbingers - banshees for the most part, with the occasional human who can do a _Sixth Sense_ and see dead people - but she introduces herself as Kate. Her lifeline is the same smoky-grey as the other banshees Ella has met, with an undercurrent of unique baby blue. It doesn't take Ella but a second to realize that Alice is twice as powerful as Kate and for a moment, she wonders why it is that Alice doesn't have to be roped into this whole deal - until she remembers that Alice is going through, like, banshee puberty still, while Ella's power has been fully (and forcibly) realized.

The fae, somehow unsurprisingly, are represented by Aro, who is just as ethereally beautiful as the last time Ella saw him. Even though the nature of meetings like this should be serious, Aro's expression is bordering on impish and she just knows that he's the wildcard to watch out for, especially when he tilts his lips at her in a way that distinctly - vividly - reminds her of _secrets_ and unsaid promises and sugar on her tongue. Aro is a type of controlled chaos, completely at the mercy of his own whims and the needs of his people.

Which, comparatively, is much more preferable to troll and goblin representatives, both of whom are weathered and grey and outright glaring daggers at one another. She's been at Viridity long enough to know a territorial dispute when she sees one and she can't help but think that the old troll and goblin must muck up the productivity of the meetings if given even half a chance. She's kind of looking forward to it, actually.

Ghouls - and other undead or otherwise eaters of the flesh, like the odd wendigo and harpy - are represented by a stone-faced, red-eyed, ashen-skinned man who introduces himself as Stefan. He has a thick, old-world accent that might be Russian and his lifeline is the darkest of browns, rigid and implacable. When he talks, she can see the barest hint of sharp teeth. Stefan isn't even trying to hide his baser nature and she kind of respects him for it.

And last are the werewolves. Yes, plural. Elisabeth Masen, being the one that invited Ella in the first place, isn't such a surprise. Her son, on the other hand, does throw Ella for a moment. Anthony is standing just off the shoulder of his mother, curly toffee-toned hair held down by an evergreen knit beanie, arms folded over his chest beneath a waffle-knit grey shirt that leaves absolutely no doubt how fit he is beneath his clothes. She hasn't seen him this close up since that ill-fated birthday run-in and it's startling to realize that the verdant edging on his eyes has blown up into a full heterochromia on each iris. Like a ink-splatter of emerald wedged between slices of amber. It's the alpha in him, the change brought on by the full moon ritual, and it hasn't only changed his eyes. He seems just a bit taller, just a bit more broad and built - just a touch more _everything_ , that tiniest difference that separates leaders from the herd.

Donatello might have sold his soul for a chance to make a sculpted rendering of Anthony Masen - and Ella wouldn't blame him. An almost untenable urge to reach for the ever-present miniature sketch book shoved in the inner pocket of her jacket makes her fingers twitch. She hasn't ever wanted to draw anyone as bad as she wants to draw the newly-minted alpha wolf and it - it makes her feel strange. The urge is almost unnatural for how insistent it is.

Ella draws her eyes away from Anthony, taking her place in the loose circle between Stefan and Kate. "Sorry I'm late," she mutters.

"We're still waiting for William Blackburn," Aro says reassuringly.

Her brow crinkles. "Who?"

"You might know him by a different name," Kate offers. "Billy, maybe. Or just by Black-"

The door slides open and in steps a very familiar shaman. Ella's brows raise once she learns that Black is the representative the functions for all of the potentials in Charmstone - people like Peter - and for the oddball creatures, like Emily and Kebi. Which she thinks is fitting, because Black is pretty odd himself. His fathomlessly dark eyes stray to her once with something like approval.

And then the meeting is starting.

Ella isn't sure what she expected, really. Perhaps less chaos than the real town meetings. Maybe some semblance of order. But that isn't how it is. It's something like a round table discussion, starting off with any pertinent updates. Like, Stefan is dead-set on discussing the recent shortage of dead-flesh available for his people and wants to expand to surrounding cemeteries, something which is apparently controversial because of _secrecy_. Aro is eager to let everyone know that all the fae who traveled for the holidays have returned safely to Charmstone, but that the were rather perturbed to learn that trolls had taken a liking to their faerie circles in the meantime. To which the trolls take offense because it was actually the goblins who munched on the mushrooms.

And on it goes for a solid half-hour. The only ones who don't speak up are Black, the werewolves, and Ella, mostly because she doesn't know what's up with her people. The warlock in the back though, a sour-faced man calling himself Benji, finally gets fed up and jolts from his chair. "Since this child has no idea what's happening in the town," he interjects meanly, shouldering his way into the discussion. He sneers at Ella. "I would like to update everyone on the goings-on of the hedge-witches in the-"

"Excuse me." Ella cuts him off, stepping forward.

Benji taller than her by an entire head, but the reedy kind of thin that doesn't make him seem very intimidating. That, and she can sense how thin his magic is beneath his skin; to compare, her own is as deep as the molten core of the earth. Benji doesn't seem to understand that, though, because he directs his ire to Major Newton and Elisabeth. "The magic users _do not_ recognize this brat as our leader," he tells them. "Just because you think that she's qualified, it doesn't mean that _we_ do and myself and a few like-minded associates-"

Ella is _fuming_ , suddenly struck by an aggravation so acute that she doesn't even hesitate to raise her right hand - and with the magician's glass glinting cleanly on her middle finger, she pinches her forefinger and thumb together, a spritz of silvery magic sealing Benji's mouth shut. His hands rise to his face in horror.

(And she doesn't know it, but her Fay-light eyes, the washed-out blue-green-grey, have swirled completely into a brightly-shining silver, burning out of her face like supernova stars.)

"First, you're, like, _really_ rude. Second, you're more stupid than your lack of manners would suggest. And third, if you wanted to know how qualified I am, consider yourself _convinced_ ," she says coolly, waving her hand at Benji and magically forcing him back to his seat, unable to move under the force of her magic. She unleashes just a bit of the power she has lurking in her blood, just enough to make it seem like gravity is pressing against his bones as she treads closer, looking at him the same way Raven looks at particularly interesting insects. "You're right, though. I am new. I have no idea what's going on with our people right now. And I didn't even _want_ this position - but since I have it, you can be my messenger. I don't know and I don't care how the system worked before. You can go and tell all the magic-users in town that if they need me, I'll know in an instant. You go and tell them that if they have concerns they need to discuss, then they can contact me directly - with magic or by phone, it doesn't matter. I'll get the message.

"But what you _aren't_ going to do is pretend like power doesn't matter here. You aren't going to pretend that what I did with the town's ley lines and the wards was a fluke. You aren't going to pretend that you and all the other magic-users let a goddamn _hag_ slip into town and start her own creepy little business," she says lowly, just on the edge of threatening. She reins in her magic again and snaps her fingers, releasing the silencing spell she placed on Benji. "I think we understand each other, don't we?"

Blanched, Benji nods with wide eyes. He goes to stand, probably to flee, and she flicks her hand again, stopping him with a thought.

"Oh, right. I have another message," she tells him. "I'll meet with the hedge-witches after the town meeting. You can tell them, can't you?"

"Y-yes. I'll do that."

"Great," she smiles, aware that there is an edge to it, just a bit too sugary-sweet to be genuine.

Benji departs like his ass is on fire, which is just fine - display of temper or not, she's still vexed. Like, it isn't as if she expected the transition of leadership to go _smoothly_ , but still.

"Impressive," Aro says. "If only I could cow my lovely fae as expertly. Alas, I must rely on charm. Something which you have in spades, darling, don't misunderstand. But your method seems much more effective."

She levels him with a droll look, pushing hair off her face. "He was being a dick," she says. Then she looks at each of the representatives, gauging their reactions, half of which stem from disapproval and half from unease. Which she gets - because she hadn't said any spells, she hadn't had to do anything but _think_ for her magic to be there, bypassing what they all know about the laws of magic and what magic-users are capable of. It doesn't escape her that she's blundered her way into a power-play that might work - or harm - her in the future. Fucking great.

Ella looks to Elisabeth. "This _seat at the table_ thing is fantastic. Really."

Elisabeth's smile is slight.

And then things change in an instant - the kind of drastic kind of change that speaks of _dread_ to come.

Mayor Newton clears his throat and makes a morbid announcement. "It has come to my attention from the Adriondack Park Rangers that a hiker who set out from - has gone missing. The Rangers have arranged to search the common trails through our forest, so please, be, er, mindful for the time being."

And isn't that interesting?

Anthony Masen seems to think so, too, because he shifts forward. Alert.

"I will let my pack know to be considerate of the humans," Elisabeth says. "Anthony?"

He uncrosses his arms, though he still looks as intimidating. "I'll start patrols immediately, try and catch the scent of the hiker."

Stefan curls his lip, looking at Aro with suspicion. "Not to put too fine a point on it, but isn't it possible that the hiker vanished into the faerie realm?"

Aro makes a small moue of disappointment, shaking his head, placing a hand over his heart in offense. "Why, Stefan, that did sound like an accusation. Perhaps you should look closer to home. You do have sinew between your teeth, do you not?"

"Why, I ought to-"

Ella casts an appraising glance to Kate. "Is the hiker dead?" she asks bluntly.

Kate wrings her hands together. "I don't know…it is possible."

Ella doesn't roll her eyes, but she wants to honestly, wouldn't a banshee be able to _tell_? Would Alice be able to tell? Was Kate even the most powerful banshee in town?

"Well, I haven't felt anything in the wards," she says to the group. She _doesn't_ say, _like how I felt something wrong with the ley lines and the hag that none of you did anything about_. That's something best left unspoken. "But if I do, I'll let someone know."

"Tell Anthony," Elisabeth says decisively.

Both Ella and Anthony look at her, though her son is a tad more incredulous than might be warranted.

"Me?" he asks. "Are you saying that you want me running point on this…whatever it is?"

"No time like the present, my son. Let us see how well you are coming into that new alpha power."

Ella glances at Anthony and he looks to her - and if they are both skeptical about the wisdom of this arrangement, well, it's become quite clear that these little monthly pre-meetings to the weekly town meetings aren't a _democracy_. A collective effort, maybe.

But there isn't any doubt as to who is in charge in Charmstone and it certainly isn't the ever-perspiring Mayor Newton.

* * *

 **A/N: I just couldn't find a good place to stop!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	66. part 5: 11: catch a break

**eleven**

 **catch a break**

* * *

The townspeople of Charmstone seem to take the news that the forest is - once again - cordoned from casual access rather well. Probably because the dead of winter is not exactly the ideal time for family hiking trips. And also because limiting access to the Charmstone forest and Beacon Lake is par for the course in this town. Apparently.

Between the red caps and the hag, Ella can't say that she's exactly surprised.

(And hadn't Carlisle said that magicians drew supernatural phenomenon to them? Like a magnet? He had; she's choosing to believe _strife_ might be a better word than _phenomena_. Because she has the notion that certainly nothing good will come from her magical magnetism.)

Ella spends the meeting sitting next to Anthony in the first row, both of them between his mother and Stefan, watching as Mayor Newton sweats his way through the evening's itinerary. A few disputes about parking tickets are settled, the Valentine's Day town event is discussed, children are again warned about the dangers of sticking their tongues to poles during frozen weather. The usual, with the added last-minute intensity of _Don't go into the woods_.

She's somewhat mollified to know that Anthony, who has lived in this town his entire life, spends a good portion of the town meeting rolling his eyes, distinctly unimpressed. She's a bit less assured once she takes a half-heartedly curious peek at his lifeline to see that it is coiled tightly around him, almost defensively, but also straining outward at the same time.

She looks at Anthony Masen and wonders, _what internal battle are you fighting_?

And Anthony Masen looks at her once the meeting is adjourned and says, "I'll let you know if anything is found on patrols. Bree will get the information to you."

She tilts her head back to better look at him. "Or I'll hear you."

His scarred brow raises minutely.

She mimics the expression. "The howling," she reminds him blandly. "I'll hear the howling. Yours, probably, since you're the loudest wolf in Charmstone, I think."

Anthony's expression closes off and Ella realizes that she has just put her foot in her mouth. Big time. She doesn't have a chance to apologize, though, because he adjusts the beanie on his head, gifts her with a flinty-eyed look, and slouches out of the meeting hall with his hands shoved in his pockets. Ella's eyes follow after him; he has a thin paperback book rolled into his back pocket and doesn't so much as shiver once he steps out into the late January air. Anthony deftly locates Bree, pulling her away from yet another Bree-and-Riley bickering session with Peter playing mediator, and disappears off into the night.

 _Excellent social skills, Ella_ , she reflects with mild disgruntlement.

"You get under his skin," Elisabeth observes, much to Ella's surprise.

Like, are mothers supposed to be _that_ forward? And also, why did that comment seem so pointed? How is she even supposed to respond to that? With, like, a run-down of all the _super_ awkward interactions Anthony and Ella have ever had, which is to say, _all of their encounters_? It seems like if she isn't crying on him, he's running off for some reason.

"That's…." Ella trails off uncertainly.

Elisabeth smiles serenely, then places her hand very lightly on the back of Ella's shoulder, leading Ella toward the back of the meeting hall where a trio of middle-aged hedge-witches are standing. "I believe you have some business to conduct. Good luck, Ella. I have a feeling you will take to leadership very admirably."

As Elisabeth saunters off, Ella has the idle thought that getting the last word - or the last glare - might just be a Masen trait. One she isn't particularly fond of.

For what might be the umpteenth time that night, Ella suppresses a sigh and pushes forward. She refuses to show anything but strength in front of her - her _constituents_. Brusquely, Ella introduces herself, learns that Benji _had_ passed along her message, and that the hedge-witches wanted approval for what ultimately turns out to be a naked frolic in the woods under the guise of a Mother Earth ritual to select the strongest seeds from the last harvest. Or something. Ella's face freezes into a placid expression as soon as the words _bare to the Goddess Moon_ left one of the hedge's lips.

Honestly, Ella didn't even know that was a _thing_ , but she's swiftly learning that hedge-witches are all about the free-loving. And nudity. The nude thing seems to be very important to them for reasons that Ella just point-blank doesn't want to understand.

Ella approves the request, though repeats Mayor Newton's caution about the forest. When the hedges suggest using the Charmstone town square as their ritual spot - completely serious, mind - Ella takes a spare moment to imagine the horror such a sight might inflict on the other residents of the town. Because of the naked thing. And then she offers up the portion of the forest just beyond Carlisle's backyard, because she's a bit evil, and also because she already knows how well warded that area is, courtesy of her own skills.

She figures - these are her people so it's her duty to make sure they're protected, even if they want to do weird nudist magic things at midnight hours. Bonus if the vein in Carlisle's forehead does that pulsing thing when he learns about what will be happening in his backyard in a few days.

Ella makes sure that the hedge-witches know how to contact her - and mentally making a note to figure out _some way_ for magical communication to not involve so much magic that _all_ magic-users, maybe even all creatures with the barest hint of magic, are able to use it. Maybe she can borrow from popular culture? Maybe she should definitely bring it up with Peter; he'll almost certainly have an idea that Ella can work with. She sends the hedges off, confident that between them and the newly-neutered Benji, she should be having any coup attempts.

Hopefully. Because she can see that getting old _real_ quick.

Ella wades through the thinning crowd and soon finds Peter, or rather Peter finds her, as is his habit. It seems he had elected to wait around for her while Riley and Alice went back to campus ahead of them; Alice apparently hadn't been feeling well and Riley had a moment of selflessness, offering to walk her back safely. Peter almost swoons when he relates this very chivalrous act, practically gushing about it.

She can't resist teasing him a bit sardonically. "But aren't you worried that means he _likes_ Alice?"

Peter flails. "What? _No_. That's not - you don't think, do you? I mean, it's _Alice_! And Riley is - he's -" Peter stops himself, tongue tripping over words as he frowns.

"He's gay, Peter," Ella tells him plainly, stifling her laughter at his response.

"Don't just assume," Peter mutters with a pout. And then he says, "You're so _mean_ , making me worry about a totally legitimate concern."

She rolls her eyes. "Really, you don't have to worry."

He tries valiantly to not look so hopeful for a moment, shaking his head resolutely. They walk in silence for a moment, edging around the town square. "So, like, how did the meeting thing go?" Peter inquires with an affable smile.

Ella relates the most interesting points - like the animosity between Aro and Stefan, which he finds _hilarious_ , and the Benji ordeal, and of course the request from the hedge-witches, which makes Peter do a swift double-take. If he'd been drinking something, she's sure liquid would have shot from his nose, that's how violently stunned his reaction is.

"Wait, they wanted to _what_? Are you serious?"

Ella's lips slide into a slow grin, shaking her head a bit. "Unfortunately, I am serious. I just don't see how it's my problem."

Peter bounces on his toes excitedly. "Well, you're like their queen, yeah? You're totally _Khaleesi_ , just without the married part. Unless - no - you aren't married, are you?"

Ella stares at him, reasonably horrified by the very thought. "God, no."

"Whoa, super swift denial. Is the institution of marriage beneath your appraisal?"

"Ask another question," she tells him pointedly.

Peter wiggles his brows. "Do you think dragons are real? Because if they are, you can be an _actual_ mother to dragons."

"Peter, do I look like the maternal type to you?"

"Not strictly speaking, but that didn't stop Dany, either, so your argument is kind of invalid," he points out.

Ella rolls her eyes. She opens her mouth to illustrate exactly why she should never be anybody's mother, but another, more feminine voice cuts her off, and both she and Peter turn toward the sound.

"Hey, Ella!" Vera calls, trotting up to them with a sunny smile. "Glad I caught you!"

"Vera." Ella takes in Vera's bright disposition and her dilated pupils, starkly reminded of that night with the faerie leaf, except Vera isn't actually high. Ella can tell. Vera is really just that happy. She inclines her chin, then asks, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Vera's cheeks erupt into a becoming, blooming pink. She tucks blonde hair behind her ear, glancing twice at Peter before somewhat shyly announcing her proposal. "I was wondering if you'd like to go out sometime. Get a coffee or something?"

"Oh," Ella says blankly. She blinks, then bites her lip. "Um, I don't know…"

"It doesn't have to be a date if you don't want it to be," Vera offers. And the thing about it is that this version of Vera is a night-and-day contrast to the ones that Ella has met before - not a passive-aggressive tornado deliberately making situations uncomfortable and not the wildly, lusty, uninhibited party girl. Still the same saltwater-taffy tartness, the same sea-breeze dusty grey-blue to her lifeline, so still the same girl in the literal sense - but not the same girl all the same.

This version of Vera is walking the fine line between contrite and flirtatious. Completely genuine, too. Ella is struck by the realization that Vera might genuinely _like_ her in the romantic sense and she isn't sure what to _do_ with that, because Vera seems very fragile, like a China doll.

Ella shoots a look to Peter, but he only shrugs, helplessly aware that his input is totally unnecessary in this exchange.

"I never turn down coffee," Ella hears herself saying.

Vera nearly glows with elation. " _Perfect!_ I'll feel free to snag you sometime on campus, then. I'm so looking forward spending more time with you," she says, again completely genuine. She leaves after a lingering smile in her apple-shaped cheeks, looking back twice.

"Wow," says Peter. "What was that? I've never heard of Vera being so, like, forward."

Ella can only shrug as she watches after Vera flouncing away, belatedly realizing that Vera's skirt is soaked from the hem all the way up to her knees. And it isn't raining.

And that's weird, right? Right. It's _weird_. Everything about this stupid town is _weird_.

Can't Ella just catch a break?

* * *

 **A/N: Ella is right. Charmstone _is_ weird. There were, however, a few clues in this chapter!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	67. part 5: 12: right off screen

**twelve**

 **right of screen**

* * *

The Adirondack Preserve - which houses the forest Charmstone calls its own, along with the town itself, the university, and Beacon Lake - is a fair six million acres and while Ella isn't completely sure just how many of those acres the Masen pack claims as territory, she does know that it takes only two days for Anthony and his three-beta pack to find the body of the missing hiker.

Note the operative word of _body_. The hiker is very much dead.

And Ella knows before anyone else in Charmstone - not because she hears Anthony's howl or has developed any precognition, but because she happens to be with Alice in the kitchen of the Red Lily Hall common floor. And Alice has a _reaction_ , which in retrospect and paired with events directly following mean only one thing. A freshly dead body, as sensed by a banshee, then reported by a werewolf, all very close together.

See, Alice is in the middle of berating Ella's cleaning habits - mainly that Ella's _Fantasia_ spell, with all the mops and dishrags magically moving themselves over surfaces, is not fair to other people in the dorm who actually do have to put in some elbow grease. Ella's retort to this is to point out that _powering_ the spell is her due effort. Alice isn't buying it, of course, and is just about to launch into a rebuttal when she kind of sways.

Lists just a bit to the left, hand pressed to her forehead, eyes fluttering shut with a grimace pulling sharply at the corners of her mouth - a mouth which is tightly closed, jaw rigid. As if holding in words. Or a _scream_.

"Alice?"

Alice shakes her head, looking pale, holding herself against the counter.

And then there is the howl, far in the distance but ringing clear into the night. Ella knows that howl, knows the nuance in the long, drawn-out note, knows the urgency behind the tone. Knows what it means if Anthony is howling at eight on a Sunday night when she knows full well - as told by Bree - that he had dragged his pack out to the forest for another night of searching for a certain missing hiker.

Her eyes flick to Alice and judging that the banshee isn't about to make them all temporarily deaf, Ella hurries to the backdoor off the kitchen. Even as she is opening the door, she is pulling on the silvery string connecting her lifeline to Raven's, summoning her familiar to her with alacrity.

Raven swoops down mere moments later, landing on Ella's outstretched arm and staring with intent onyx eyes.

"Find the wolves," Ella requests lowly. "See if that's what I think it is."

Raven dips her head, then soars into the night with a flap of strong, oil-spill dark wings, crossing over the outline of the crescent moon as she ascends into the sky.

Ella goes back into the kitchen, eyeing Alice warily and paying very close attention to her link with Raven. She knows the instant that her suspicions about the hiker are correct, because Raven's side of their bond lights up in confirmation.

Ella sighs grimly.

A dead hiker in no way sounds like good news.

* * *

 **A/N: No shit, Ella.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	68. part 5: 13: monday monday monday

**HUGE TRIGGER WARNING THIS CHAPTER. But everyone was curious, so….at your own peril, people.**

* * *

 **thirteen**

 **monday monday monday**

* * *

The dead body in the woods is now in the custody of the Charmstone Police Department, undergoing an autopsy to discern the cause of death and it has been made perfectly clear to that nobody on the town council - including those who _found_ the body - would be made aware of what killed the hiker. According to one Officer Uma Farrar, it isn't any of their business, community leaders or not.

And Ella can kind of see Officer Farrar's point, because in any ordinary town, the people running town meetings are not made privy of the causes of death of random hikers unless, like, _serial killers_ are on the loose. Which isn't confirmed - yet. Except this isn't a normal town, is it? It's _Charmstone_ , home of creatures that most humans think go bump in the night, and Ella - for one - doesn't think that ordinary rules should supply. She doesn't think many on the town council are exactly thrilled about this decision, either.

But it is out of their hands. All forms of government, no matter how small, are subject to checks and balances, or at least that was what Carlisle said when she called him up to complain about the sudden roadblock.

He wasn't very amused when she said, "I'm an anarchist at heart."

Ella lets the whole issue go for the moment, giving it all the benefit of the doubt. According to Anthony, who was the only one to see the body outside of the coroner and a few police officers, there doesn't appear to be anything supernatural about the death of the hiker.

Ella had placed her hands on her hips and stared at him from the front porch of Red Lily Hall, still dressed in the old sweatshirt and tall socks that passed as her sleepwear. For his part, Anthony doesn't look as if he has slept, hair mussed and amber-green eyes deeply shadowed; he must have just come from the _crime scene_. Ella thinks of Alice's strange reaction, how it came just before Anthony found the body, and taps her bare foot against the doorjamb.

"So, there wasn't anything weird? Nothing your wolfy nose could suss out?"

Anthony's smile was grim. "There was a lot of blood," he told her plainly. "And the hiker smelt of lake water, which isn't surprising because he was drenched. But a human killer is perfectly capable of drowning then then gutting another human."

"Point taken."

Anthony had left then and Ella had effectively put it out of her mind. Because until it became a supernatural issue - or one that was more obviously a supernatural issue - or one that had any hint of magic in it at all - there was no way to be involved. If she even _wants_ to be involved, which honestly, she does not. She reminds herself that she is a _reluctant_ community leader and ignores the twist in her stomach as she readies herself for her therapy appointment with Kebi.

Mental fortitude, and all that.

Ella has been dreading this session. Of course it would come on a _Monday_.

"Are you ready to talk about the past today?"

Ella sinks back into the couch cushions, arms crossed defensively over her chest as she avoids Kebi's calm stare. "No. But I - I know that I have to. I just don't know where to start."

"Hmm. Why don't you tell me about your favorite memory from when you were a child?"

A humorless laugh leaves her throat. "There aren't many to choose from, Kebi."

"It is very easy to fall into black-and-white thinking. Sometimes, we focus so much on the negative that we forget to find the positive. And sometimes we think that there is too much negative for any positive to exist at all. But very little in life is all-or-nothing."

"I'm not exactly an optimist, searching for the silver lining in every black cloud," Ella points out.

Kebi's smile is gentle, accepting. "I don't think you need to be."

Ella sighs, dropping her head to the back of the couch, wracking her mind for anything happy about her childhood. It takes a moment before she can slowly say, "There _was_ this one time…" At Kebi's encouraging nod, Ella continues uncertainly. "I must have been three or four, I think. It was summer and the foster mom, some old lady, had taken all the kids - there were a lot of us, I mean, I remember sleeping on a mattress with two other girls - to go get ice cream. That doesn't happen very often, not when there are so many mouths to feed. But that day was so hot, the kind of smoggy humidity that only happens in New York, and we got ice cream for being on good behavior, I guess. I don't know. I do remember that ice cream, though. Chunky strawberry in a sugar cone. It was so good."

"Sounds lovely."

Ella snorts. "While it lasted. In the end, the ice cream ended up on the ground because one of the other kids wanted the same flavor but _I_ got the last scoop and I guess if he couldn't have it, neither could I. He stomped on the cone and I…I don't remember crying. I think even then I knew that tears wouldn't get me anything. It's the first time I remember being _so mad_ though and…looking back, I think it's obvious that I used magic. Because that boy who stomped on my ice cream ended up tripping on nothing and breaking his arm in two places. And the next day I was moved out of the house. It was probably the best place I'd ever been, until Carlisle."

"That's a long time to go without a happy home," Kebi notes.

"I must have had the shittiest luck in the foster system," Ella says without humor. "I swear to God, every new house was worse than the last and the group homes weren't any better. I mean, at least the group homes didn't have any of the shady crap that happens in the foster homes, but it wasn't any better. Instead of adults screwing you over, it was the other kids. You have to understand - group homes have hierarchies and the older kids are on top for a reason. They're meaner and disillusioned and they don't like new comers who might replace them for favorite. Once, my wrist was fractured in a group home just because the matron said I was pretty in front of the other kids…"

"Go on."

"But…I mean, I would still prefer the group homes to the foster homes. By the time I was ten, I already knew how deep-tissue bruises felt, what it was like to crack a rib, that gnawing hunger that happens when dinner is taken away for some made up reason. By twelve, I could identify what kind of drunk someone was going to be just by looking at them and I know that the state is supposed to screen these people, but they miss _a lot_. Like drug dealers coming to collect money at night. Or like beating a kid because something _freaky_ happened. Which…that was me," Ella whispers, tracing the ridge of the scarred sigils beneath her shirt. "I was so terrified, just so scared of _being_ scared because when I was frightened…things would happen. And I was a small kid, I mean, I looked like prey. And I know now that it was magic, but at the time…it made everything worse, sometimes. Most of the time. The other kids would leave me alone once they caught on to how many weird things happened around me - like bookshelves toppling over and lights bursting and boils forming on the skin - but the adults? They didn't seem to care. I guess some of them thought it was a bad batch of whatever they were getting high on, but…others made me pretty familiar with all the different ways the human body can feel pain. And that was just _life_ until Carlisle."

Kebi nods intently. "But before Carlisle, you mentioned that you ran away?"

"I did. I had to."

"Can you tell me why?"

Ella's teeth sink into her lip. "…We…It wasn't a good house. The first time I saw it, I remember thinking it looked like a prison, with the bars on the windows and the chainlink fence and it was so _gray_ , everything in that house was just so dull. It was like living in a cement box, cramped and always cold. I'd been moved there because my previous foster home didn't house kids older than fourteen and because the new fosters only had another girl. Basically, the system put me where there was room. It was a married couple. The wife worked all the time at the corner store, I mean, she was almost always gone and when she was home, she was sleeping. The man, though, he'd been injured on the job somehow and so he was the one that was there. He was always drinking and smoking. Coors and Marlboro menthols. And he…" Ella trails off, chest tight, like she can't _breathe_.

Which isn't the first time Ella has felt such clenching panic in-session, so she knows its okay that she takes a moment to collect herself, doing the breathing exercises Kebi had taught her. Several minutes pass before Ella feels like she can continue, but her tongue is glued to the roof of her mouth.

"Ella?" Kebi prompts.

"Sorry. I just…" Ella pulls her arms tighter around her chest. "You know, the first time I saw him, I think he knew. I think I _knew_ what he was capable of. You can just tell, sometimes. You can see in the eyes just what kind of monster a man is and Duncan - his friends called him Dunn - he was the worst kind of monster. His touches lingered when he was feeling nice, you know? Very tactile. A hand on the shoulder, smoothing back hair, squeezing the nape of the neck…a guiding hand on the hip, low on the back. His friendly touches lingered and his angry touches were like a brand. Duncan had - it was a hair trigger. We never knew what was going to make him mad, but when he was mad and drunk - and he was always drunk - then he took it out on us."

"Us?"

"Me and Jane…she was my foster sister. A year older than me. Pretty like a doll, but meek. Quiet, like a mouse. She kept her head down, or tried to, but…we shared a room and some nights, Jane would come back from going to the bathroom and she would just cry. Most of what I remember about her was the way her shoulders would shake. She was so scared. And Jane had been in that house for an entire year. Me? I was there two months before Duncan's friendly touches started getting a bit too friendly - and I mean, for me, it was better to make him mad then just let him…" Ella shakes her head. "So when he was in a good mood, I'd shoot my mouth off about his drinking or his beer gut, you know? Get him mad enough that he wouldn't want to touch me in any other way. I'd rather he beat me."

Ella exhales a heavy breath, pushing the words out. "Jane didn't…Jane wasn't like me. She'd been broken for a long time, I think, even before Duncan. She didn't fight back and by the time I realized just how far Duncan was going…"

"Take your time."

Ella directs her eyes up to the ceiling, studying the speckle like it can save her from her memories. "It was almost Christmas. The wife, Patty, she was working a double shift and Duncan had invited a friend over real late. And Jane and I had planned to make ourselves scarce, but the bathroom was downstairs and Jane couldn't hold it. I didn't even know she'd left. There was a fire escape outside of our bedroom and I liked to spend as much time out there as possible. I don't know how long Jane was gone before I realized it - but the house was too quiet. When Duncan had friends over, they were always loud, so loud that it was impossible to sleep. But not this time. I…I didn't even think about it, I just went downstairs and even before I got to the living room, I could hear Jane crying.

"She was just crying in the corner and her- her shirt was ripped and so were her sweats and there was blood and I -" "I wasn't even thinking. It was impulse. So _stupid_. I just threw myself at Duncan, beating on him and yelling and he managed to get my by the throat and shove me against the wall. I remember I couldn't breathe and how that must be the worst feeling in the world. And I guess he'd decided that Jane wasn't enough for him, because he told his friend to make Jane watch and then he started pulling at my clothes. I spit at him and scratched and he didn't seem to care, that's how focused he was. He - his hands…I can still feel him, sometimes, the way _that_ felt against my stomach."

"But he didn't…I didn't let him. Or my magic didn't let him get as far as he and his friend had with Jane because one moment he was bruising me and I was on the verge of passing out - and the next it felt like the room exploded. I mean, glass was everywhere, the TV was fried, and Duncan and his buddy were knocked out cold….And that's when I ran away. I got Jane by the hand and we just ran, for blocks and blocks and blocks until we were at the hospital and I - I left her there, broken and bleeding at the Emergency Room doors, and then I kept running. I couldn't go back, not to that house and not to the system where they'd just put me in another bad situation. It was better in my mind that I be a runaway than put my fate in anyone else's hands."

"I see." Kebi's pen taps against the legal pad, a sign that she is _thinking_.

"After all this time, I can't believe I left her at the hospital," Ella whispers regretfully.

"But you also got her out of that house."

Ella's face twists in denial. "I also didn't notice what was happening and I should have. Looking back, it's so _obvious_. I should have figured it out on the first night that Jane came back crying."

"You were fifteen," Kebi reminds her.

"Like that's an excuse? I _failed_ her."

"It sounds to me like the foster system failed her," Kebi disagrees calmly. "The system has a responsibility to place children in safe environments. For you, it seems like the first time you were ever truly safe was when Carlisle adopted you."

"Yeah…" Ella sighs. She shifts on the couch before hastily wiping at the sudden tear in her eyes, She pulls herself together with tendons and magic and tries to forget about the hollow space beneath her heart, the spot of blackness that will never heal quite right. "Does this - I mean, is any of this part of the reason I'm so messed up?"

"I don't think you're messed up, Ella. I think you're human. An extraordinarily resilient one, at that," Kebi tells her softly. "But yes, the next time I see you, I would like you to take a few assessments. If you're comfortable with that."

Assessments - tests and shit to figure out what is wrong in Ella's head. She doesn't _want_ to do it. But she needs to know because it affects her magic. So with the remainders of her courage, she says, "Alright."

* * *

 **A/N: _To be clear_ , Ella wasn't raped, but she was sexually abused before she decided that being beaten was the better option. Unfortunately, foster kids are subject to both kinds of abuse at a sickeningly high percentage rate and it definitely does impact their mental health. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	69. part 5: 14: spiderwebbing

**fourteen**

 **spiderwebbing**

* * *

Ella walks around in a daze after her session with Kebi. Only later will she realize that she completely missed her afternoon lecture and that she had blown off a phone call with Carlisle that she made a habit of after every therapy day.

Her mind is -

Honestly, if she had to describe it, the state of her mind bares a strong resemblance to how she was after she ran away with Jane. Ella is restless and uncertain and pumped full of energy, but also _exhausted_ in a truly metaphysical way, like there isn't enough _Ella_ to compensate for the breadth of her emotions. Like her skin is too small, too tight. Her wandering mind keeps revolving back toward the memories she's spent years pushing down and trying to forget - successfully - but now that it's all dredged up and at the forefront, her feet are doing what they do best.

Moving. Walking. Roaming. Then running.

God, but Ella loves to run. Not just the metaphorical, ditch-this-place-for-something-better running, which she is also fond of - but actually, physically _running_ , the pound of her feet on the ground, the way her knees bend, the sweat that gathers at the nape of her neck. The way she _has_ to breathe and the way she _doesn't_ have to think. Running in any sense of the word has always been her go-to.

She isn't running away this time.

Well, she is, but she's not running _away from_ anything. Or rather running _to_ anything. She isn't trying to escape or get out or whatever. She's just trying to run to any secluded part of campus so she can be alone and release the bundle of breath-taking anger - so she can release the magic that is clouding up the magician's glass ring on her middle finger, which is a shining, livid red.

Ella dashes clear across campus, back to the seldom-used southern courtyard which might have at one time been accommodations for centaurs judging by the oddly private configuration of the trees, which seem to form their own little rooms of a sort. She doesn't quite care at the moment. Every time she blinks, she sees Duncan's face leering over hers, or Jane's shaking shoulders, or that horrible tell-tale silence, or any of the other hundred clues she should have seen -

As soon as she steps into the line of trees in the courtyard, she hastily throws her hand in the air, erecting a sloppy ward to prevent her magic from billowing out - and to hold in the agonized wail rising from her throat. Ella throws herself onto the frozen grass, pounding her fists against brittle dirt, and each time her hand makes impact, a wild flare of magic beats through the space around her.

Hit - a flash of lightning. Hit - a spark of quick-dying ember. Hit - a whipping score of wind. Hit. Hit. Hit. Magic crackles around her and she rages at the earth, screaming her anger and her fear and everything else she'd rather forget until her throat hurts. And then she slumps forward, sobbing in the way she never let herself when she was fifteen.

Time isn't a consideration. But by the time she pulls herself together, sitting up on her knees and examining the spiderwebbing crack spreading halfway across the magician's glass with detached interest, the winter sun is already setting. It must be late afternoon, then.

Feeling fragile as glass - a state that is not at all natural for her - Ella stands on pinprick numb legs. The courtyard has certainly taken a beating from her magical outburst with branches broken and several of the trees bent backward, but her shoddy-work ward had held and since there are no panicked students running around, she gathers that her little breakdown had been private.

Except, no. It hadn't been private at all.

She doesn't notice him until she's taken down the ward, but the moment she does, a very particular golden lifeline springs into her awareness and she spots Anthony lurking not fifty feet away. And the only reason she can think to explain why she hadn't sensed him from the relative safety of the nearest building's shadow is because Raven is perched right on his shoulder - and since Raven's magical signature is so _tuned_ to hers, she hadn't paid it any extra attention.

She should have.

Part of her is mortified, because once again Anthony Masen has bared witness to another crying jag of Ella's. Another part is vexed for the same reason. However, Ella is too emotionally drained at the moment to express any of that.

She moves warily on coltish legs. Anthony meets her halfway, Raven eagerly leaping into Ella's outstretched hands, nipping at the bruises and broken skin around her knuckles with something like disapproval and apology. For his part, Anthony stares at her with a kind of unfathomable patience and she is suddenly struck by the idea that he understands.

How much does he understand? And why?

Ella's eyes flicker down to Raven, who tilts her head, obviously picking up on the suspicious tenor of Ella's thoughts. _He was already here when I felt your call_ , Raven thinks along their bond. _Peculiar wolf._

Ella frowns up at Anthony, cursing his height and the way he is so casually beautiful, just in jeans and a hoodie with no mind to dress for the cold weather. "So, what, do you get some kind of perverse pleasure in watching girls cry, or is it just me?"

His scarred brow lifts. "Neither. I could feel your magic from the library and considering the…output, I thought something was wrong. That campus was under attack," he explains, but it's said as an afterthought, almost like he meant to say something else.

Her face feels warm, neck heating up, and her tone is sharp. "And when you saw that there wasn't a hoard of gremlins breaking past the gate, you decided to, what? Enjoy the show?"

"Wanted to make sure you were okay," he replies, unflapped by her biting words. "Like any decent human being would."

"You're a werewolf."

Anthony's eyes glint gold, the green rising eerily around his pupil in a way it hadn't while he was still his mother's beta. "I'm human first, just like you. Forgive me if I'm not a complete bastard."

"I'd think you were tired of watching me cry by now," she retorts.

His face softens. "Actually, I-"

Ella gasps and his mouth snaps closed.

Raven flaps her wings, rising in the air to hover just over their heads, and both she and Ella look to the west where far beyond campus and beyond Charmstone there is something sinister plucking at a single ley line.

Something in the forest.

And ordinarily, Ella wouldn't be able to tell. She's certainly sensitive to the ley lines and is keyed right into the very foundations and structures of the wards around Charmstone, but she has to be concentrating to feel any fluctuation _that_ slight. She can't even pinpoint which ley line it is, just that it is somewhere northwestern. Ella can only guess that her recent outburst has left her magic grasping outward, maybe even echoing around - like yelling in a canyon and hearing a voice call back. Only _she_ isn't the one disturbing the ley line. She's not even sure if the ley line itself is being disturbed or if the magical currents are picking up on something else that's just nearby.

Kind of like a spider knows that something has landed in her web, Ella knows that something has touched upon the magical currents in Charmstone.

"Ella? What is it?"

Her mental anguish and her humiliation at being observed at such a vulnerable moment - yet again - is swiftly forgotten. Ella licks her lips. "I don't know what it was exactly," she murmurs, brows knit in concentration. "I think we need to go see Alice, like, right now -"

And right then, a hyper-shrill scream rips through Viridity, chilling through the blood right to the very _soul_. It is a banshee's scream, the one that is so loaded with death magic that it pierces right through the veil of living and dead to let a newly-parted soul pass cleanly.

Ella can think of only one harbinger in the entire town who could own a scream that leaves her very spirit quivering in unrest.

This time when Ella runs, it is with Anthony at her side and Raven overhead.

* * *

 **A/N: No rest for the wicked, right? Also, am I hearing the #Anthella ship in the harbor?**

 **On another note, my _brother_ visited this weekend, which is why I missed an update on Saturday. Sigh. He's exhausting, God love him, and it was not a good visit at all. He was in fine form, let me tell you. Gave him a present and got a "I don't know why you guys [you and Mom, because I'm incapable of referring to you as anything but a joint package] waste your money on this shit". Not even a thank-you! But, oh, when he calls me in the middle of the night about his drama or needing money, _then_ it's okay to give him attention. For God's sake, it's a _birthday present_. Accept it with a smile and move on. He could make a nun swear. My poor Mom, you guys; okay, she is disabled and in cancer remission and I am _so_ aware that she is getting older. And here's big brother, being a class-A asshat and not even putting down his phone for the whole 24 hours he decided to grace us with his presence and treating Mom like his personal bank rather than the woman who gave him _life_ and he won't even listen to me talk about the upcoming surgery she needs so I bet I can guess who will be waiting in the hospital all by herself, freaking out about making _those hard decisions_ because _someone_ can't be assed to listen to important medical details because _fucking Tinder_ _is more important than family_. Like, why even come visit if you're not going to be present and in the moment? And it's finally got to the point where he left and Mom point-blank told me that she doesn't want him coming over again, which is fine for the moment but she'll change her mind because she's a mom and loving your dickish kids is kind of what moms do. So. Like. Ugh. Just _ugh_. But hey - you can only control your own actions, right? **

**My preferred mode of brother recovery is writing, aren't you guys lucky? Apologies about the rant.**

 **Anyway. As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	70. part 5: 15: everlong

**fifteen**

 **everlong**

* * *

While it isn't quite the longest thirty seconds of Ella's life, it _is_ the longest scream she has ever heard, the high note tapering out into a reedy whistle and Ella and Anthony beat a path across campus, Raven flying ahead. Alice must have been coming from a late English class, because she is stood outside of the building, hands passing roughly through short, dark hair, with Bree hovering anxiously at her side. Around them, students and the odd faculty member have stopped in their tracks, some of them startled, others disturbed, and other still watching the scene incredulously. Ella feels absolutely no remorse as she and Anthony shove past the peanut gallery until they are near enough that Ella's solid silencing ward, which bubbles out in a silvery sheen as quick as a thought, abruptly cuts sound off from the rest of the world.

The first thing out of Bree's mouth is a slightly panicked, "I don't know what happened, she just started screaming but before that she was, like, _talking_ to herself like a mental patient and -"

"Bree," Anthony interrupts sternly, a hint of a growl edging the baritone of his voice. He jerks his chin to the side meaningfully. "Calm the masses."

Bree's shoulders slump in relief. She moves off and just before she passes the barrier of the silencing ward, Ella can clearly hear the beta wolf saying, "Alright, people, the show is _over_. Hope you've enjoyed this, ah, student art installation. See, the point of it was to see how many people would stop for someone screaming like a banshee to, like, bring awareness to bystander bias-"

Leave it to Bree to simply _talk_ people away.

Anthony seems to understand where the barely-visible edges of the silencing ward are, because he positions himself right between the barrier, one ear for campus and one ear for Alice. He seems content to loom in the background, apparently assuming that Ella is going to handle Alice by herself - which is probably for the best, because she and Alice are enough like oil and water that separating the everyday bullshit from the situation should be a snap. _Should be_ , but Ella has no idea how to start.

Alice doesn't look good at all. She's always been a pale thing, small and pretty like mogra flowers, with the barest hint of peach in her complexion, flushing along her cheekbones and her lips and offsetting the gimlet of her eyes. But now, Alice is almost waxen, blanched of all color until even her green gaze looks watered down. Like she's seen a ghost. Or stewarded one into the afterlife. She's trembling in her joints, hardly even breathing, mouth still dropped open wide in an everlong scream.

 _There's no other option than to cut everything down to the quick_ , she realizes unsmilingly as Raven drops onto her shoulder, claws pricking at her skin through the leather of her jacket. A weight that bolsters the confidence of her brusque manner as she sternly says, "Alice."

She has to say her name twice more before Alice blinks slowly, like her eyes are made of sandpaper and it hurts to use the lids. Her hands are still pressed to the sides of her face when a flicker of recognition passes over her pallid expression. "Ella?"

Ella is unforgivingly blunt as she addresses the banshee. "What's up with you?"

Alice frowns minutely, palms slipping slowly from the side of her face, as if she's just won control of her body and still doesn't know how to use it yet. She shakes her head slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

As if Ella is about to let her get away with _that_. A blind man could see that something is wrong with Alice and at the _very_ least, Ella owes it to Carlisle to make sure his biological daughter isn't about to take a dive off the deep end - at the most, Alice is the keeper of some kind of knowledge that Ella would just _bet_ is related to whatever murder-minded thing is encroaching on Charmstone.

Ella snorts, cocking her hip to the side. "You know I can tell that you're lying, right? I mean, even if you weren't a terrible liar, I would be able to tell just by looking at you. You look a lot like I did last month. So, what's wrong?"

Alice seems to have pulled herself out of her banshee trance and levels a narrow-eyed look at Ella. "As touching as your concern is, some of us actually are capable of dealing with our problems without self-medicating."

 _That was below the belt_.

"Bree says you've been muttering about cousins for two weeks," Anthony cuts in before Ella can let her mouth run off. He remains straddled on the silencing ward, but the majority of his attention is riveted on the back-and-forth of she and Alice. Probably for good reason, considering how quick they are to snipe at each other if given half the opportunity and a crabby disposition.

Alice falters.

And Ella gains ground, stepping forward with her chin raised in challenge. "And you know what I think? I think that your banshee powers are acting up. I think that you already knew about that hiker last week-"

"I didn't! I-I - that isn't what any of this is about," Alice denies feebly.

Ella scoffs. "You're telling me that you didn't sense that death? It happened right under our noses," she says. Ella's magic shifts, strong enough that it ruffles her hair, and then Alice's, like it's building up all over again. This _is so_ not the day for Ella to be inundated with more stress, but there isn't anything anyone can do about it at this point. So she continues, unflinchingly bald as she presses on. "Better yet, I think it just happened again. Because right before you screamed? I could feel something lurking out there and it seems to me that we're about to find another dead body in our forest-"

"That…isn't the death I've been sensing," Alice whispers faintly.

Ella rears back a bit, exchanging a startled look with Anthony, who is still listening stoically. "Wait, you're telling me you've _not_ been sensing deaths?"

"No, I have," the banshee corrects. "Just…not the death of that hiker."

"Then _what_?" Ella asks in bewilderment.

"Ella, something terrible is going to happen. And I don't know who it is going to happen to," Alice confesses, pupils blown wide in fright.

"Because it's about cousins?" Anthony wonders.

If Alice is surprised that anybody knows she's been talking out loud, she doesn't show it. She appears so helpless when she says, "Maybe. I don't know."

Ella exhales through her nose. "Okay, well, what's the problem, exactly?"

Alice throws her hands up in exasperation. "Because I can name four sets of cousins off the top of my head. It's a _small_ town and…what I've been hearing isn't necessarily specific. For all I know, _cousins_ could be a nebulous reference to two people who aren't blood related or who are cousins in other things, like occupations. It's - I just have no idea."

Ella's mind races. She's been known to make leaps in reasoning, probably a by-product of relying on her intuition in the foster system. Her instincts are why she's still breathing, both her human and magical intuition. But _this_ isn't _that_. Alice is right that cousins could mean a heinous number of possibilities and it's dawning on Ella that for all the power she has, she's still _green_. They're all still _new_ to this. And maybe college is about finding yourself, or whatever, but it's totally another thing to suddenly be saddled with responsibilities as huge as protecting an entire population.

At least, that's what Ella and Anthony are charged with, in a tacit kind of way just by the nature of being involved on the town council.

There is a pressure that is looming - a genuine obligation that Ella feels she owes the people around her. Is it any wonder? Even when she'd been a child, even when she was pulling Jane by the wrist, she has always felt some kind of draw to fix things, to save people, to save _herself_. It's terrifyingly close to having a hero complex, but Ella is a problem solver. Granted her ways of solving problems might not always be the best, but she's _all about_ solutions, even the ones that leave her as a homeless runaway.

Something settles in her and even as emotionally wrung-out as she is between therapy sessions and magical temper tantrums and banshee-crisis interventions - even with all of that, Ella feels centered. Honed.

Her eyes flash with silver intent as she straightens her shoulders. "Tell me about what you've been hearing."

Alice doesn't hesitate to recite what the banshee whispers have been telling her for weeks. Ella listens carefully, trying to puzzle it out as Alice repeats the poem twice, and she can tell Anthony is doing the same.

 _Cousins play two by two on the shore._

 _And on the shore one by one the cousins slay_.

 _Only one cousin swims to reach the day._

"That doesn't sound good," Ella decides.

"You're telling me," Alice agrees with a watery smile. She is almost boneless with relief and Ella can sympathize. Getting the weight of her ordeal off her chest last month was like finally breathing with two lungs; she can imagine Alice feels the same, now that she's shared what's been literally haunting her since early January.

 _The question is, what are we going to do about it?_

* * *

 **A/N: Moving along with the plotty stuff and resolving some character development points! All in a good day's work, no?  
**

 **Big thanks for the support on my sibling drama, my lovelies! :* Infinite kisses and hugs to everyone!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	71. part 5: 16: brink

**sixteen**

 **brink**

* * *

Ella throws her phone across her dorm room, seething as her magic tumbles recklessly around her, knocking all the neatness of her possessions into fresh disarray. " _Fucking_ unbelievable!" she exclaims, rounding on Raven's windowsill perch with her hands fisted on her hips. "Can you believe that? I mean, _seriously_ believe _that_? A second dead body in the woods, but _oh no_ , Charmstone PD still won't let the town council in on the details!"

Raven clicks her beak. "Did they say why?"

Ella rolls her eyes. "Oh, some bullshit about the first autopsy not being done and how nobody needed to be jumping to conclusions and other tosh about jurisdictions - like _jurisdiction matters?_ I mean, honestly, what the actual fuck?"

"Humans do love their procedures," Raven agrees mildly.

Ella sighs, pressing her palm out and willing her room to right itself.

She's more than a little stressed. It hasn't been a _good_ day, strictly speaking. After she and Bree got Alice back to Red Lily Hall and after Anthony had dispatched himself to reporting the banshee scream to his mother, along with Ella's approximate guess of which ley line had been disturbed, Ella had spent the remaining afternoon on the phone.

She fucking hates making phone calls and she _hates_ being put on hold while the police officers pass the buck to each other in a bid to try and avoid her questions. Mainly, _when can the town council get in on those details?_

Apparently, whenever Charmstone PD _feels_ like it.

She tugs on her hair, pacing in agitation. Does nobody else feel how urgent any of this is? Or is it just Ella, freaking out because she's not right in the head and because she's blowing things out of proportion? And does it really matter?

"I have to do something," she tells Raven, having realized she's reached the brink of her patience.

"Alright," Raven agrees easily. "What do you plan on doing?"

"I don't know. Yet."

"Well, having a plan might be a good idea."

She shoots her familiar a droll look. "Yeah, I'll get right on that."

* * *

 **A/N:Ah, the annoyances of bureaucracy.**

 **Okay lovelies! I have officially started a new semester, so updates might be more erratic than usual, and by that I mean they might be sporadic - maybe every other day or a few times a week while I transfer my focus to homework and other projects. The story, however, will go on. I'm playing in by ear.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	72. part 5: 17: assemble

**seventeen**

 **assemble**

* * *

If anyone had told Ella a year ago that she would be actively recruiting people for the sole purpose of defying the local authorities, she would have laughed right in their face as the absurdity of the very idea. Well, at the absurdity of _recruiting people_ , because defying authority figures is par for Ella's course and not at all unusual. The involving-other-people part is new and so is admitting that she might _need_ other people.

Kebi and Carlisle will be very happy with her personal growth. They might now, however, be quite so pleased with how she is choosing to apply said growth.

In any case, after a night of restless sleep and a day of attending her classes content with her own agitation, Ella drinks a scalding cup of coffee and finally sets forth on a plan of action. She listens to Raven's suggestions of who to summon to her make-shift war room set up in the Red Lily Hall common living room; Alice, because Alice is keyed into the very crux of what is happening, Bree, because she has her brother's phone number whereas Ella does not and can therefore ensure that Anthony is in attendance, and Peter, because Ella just knows that Peter will involve himself anyway. She should have expected that Peter would drag along Riley and Jasper, and that once Jasper's sister Lillian caught wind, she would promptly invite herself with Vera and Liam in tow.

Ella takes a moment to scowl at the unanticipated additions to the meeting, then goes about casting wards around the living room while everyone settles themselves on the two couches, two chairs, and in Jasper's case, the floor. Anthony remains standing, as is his wont; being the strong-and-silent type seems to involve an inordinate amount of standing. Not that Ella can judge since she's the same way. Palm facing upward, Ella first raises her right hand horizontally for the silencing ward, then her left hand for an aversion ward so nobody will come snooping. She hesitates, then layers a ward designed to fuzz the memory, too. Just in case.

It might be a bit of an overkill, but it's not like anyone in the living room can tell what she's done. They can't even fully appreciate how impressive it is that she created three wards in such quick succession or that she'd done it without uttering a word. In a way, the ease of her magic now makes up for how unmanageable it was the day before - and how uncooperative it had been earlier when she had been trying to figure out a way to get into the police department undetected by herself.

But try as Ella might, it doesn't seem to matter how much raw, infinite power she has. To accomplish any task, it seems that she has to have at least a theoretical understanding of the laws of nature that govern whatever it is that she is trying to do. Up until now, this hasn't been such a problem, because she's been relying on the basic understanding she gained while studying runes over the summer to do all of her magic. Which is fine for simple things like warding and basic charms. Not so much for more demanding, complex spells.

(She will take to her grave the fact that she'd went back to that courtyard during a break between her classes and spent an embarrassingly long time trying to figure out how to teleport. As Raven pointed out, Ella is not Einstein and does not possess even an inkling of comprehension of how space-time works. Raven had gotten a rather sour glare at that comment, but the point still stood.)

She sighs, resigned to the next-best option, which is convening all of the Scoobies - and, apparently, Anthony's friends - to brainstorm a workaround. Or a loophole. Or a felony, if need be.

Ella turns, eyeing the group critically. Probably not a misdemeanor between the lot of them. Not like Ella, who possesses a bit of a lengthy juvenile record and the cunning to prove it. But Bree and Peter are impish enough to not blink twice at what she's about to propose and Ella would put money on Anthony being the ends-justify-the-means type. The others she could care less about; if they didn't want to be involved, they could _leave_ because she didn't invite them, anyway.

She sidles around the longest couch, planting herself in front of the cold fireplace, and says, "Okay, so we need to know what's killing these hikers."

Peter raises his hand and then actually waits to be called on. "Uh, clarify. You said hiker _s_. Like, as in plural. Like, as in there is now more than one hiker that is dead."

She casts him a withering look. "Yes, Peter, that would be the exact situation. And since it seems like Charmstone PD is content to drag their feet, I propose that we actually do something about it. Before anyone else dies."

"Agreed," Bree nods avidly. "Majorly important."

"How do we do that?" Lillian wonders quite seriously.

"Ideally, we would convince the police to let us take a peek that those autopsy reports. But since we don't live in a perfect world, we have to get those reports ourselves," Ella concludes.

"Break into the police department?" Anthony straightens, his scarred brow furrowed quizzically.

She lifts her chin. "Unless you think you can persuade anyone to hand over those files. Believe me, I tried."

He meets her challenging stare dead-on. "I'm not against the idea," he says. "But how would that work? One of us just waltzes in?"

"I have a better idea!" Peter exclaims. "Ella can just _apparate_ into-"

"What?" Alice interrupts.

Bree leans forward eagerly. "Is that a Harry Potter reference? You total _nerd_. Oh, my God, I bet you even know what house you are."

"So what if I do?" Peter says defensively.

"You're such a Hufflepuff," Bree declares gleefully.

Liam looks affronted. "Hey, there's nothing wrong with Hufflepuffs."

Vera pats his shoulder. "Of course not," she says cheerfully. "They're a very underestimated house, you know."

"See?" Peter says to Bree, waving his hand at Liam and Vera. "Plus, Cedric was a Hufflepuff and look how he-"

"This just proves my point!" Bree cries in dismay. "Seriously, like-"

"For the love of Prada!" Lillian cuts in loudly, effectively shutting up the rapidly escalating debate. She turns her nose up at all of them. "You freaks can geek out over a fictional world _after_ we solve the real-life problem, okay? God."

"Thank you, Lillian….And spontaneous relocation doesn't work, anyway," Ella grouses, crossing her arms over her chest at the grudging disclosure. "I've already tried it."

Peter looks at her in awe, previous argument already forgotten. "You have? _Sweet_."

"Idiot, she just said it didn't work," Riley scoffs. He'd been observing them all coolly and, as always, doesn't seem the least bit impressed with the people around him. Ella does note, however, that _Riley_ had sat down next to _Peter_ and not the other way around; she's completely certain, even without looking at his lifeline, that the majority of Riley's behavior is an act. Fitting, for a drama major.

"Oh, right," Peter mutters, ears flushing red as he looks up at Ella. "Uh, why is that, exactly?"

Ella shrugs. "Raven has some theories," she says for lack of the lengthier explanation. "But since teleportation isn't an option, are there any ideas that are, you know, actually plausible?"

"Trick someone into telling us!" Bree suggests, then frowns. "I would volunteer, but everyone says I'm a bad liar."

Alice shakes her head. "I don't think any of us could trick a detective into blabbing about an ongoing investigation. Unless…" she trails off, eying Ella speculatively.

Ella purses her lips. "No, I don't have a spell for that, either."

Yet.

"Too bad," Vera murmurs, playing with a lock of wet hair. "Because some kind of truth spell, as my cousin suggests, seems like the easiest way."

"There are other options," Lillian asserts.

"We could try to overhear someone talking about it, I guess," Liam says uncertainly. "Well, the werewolves could."

"Or my familiar," Ella injects. "A raven inside a police station seems conspicuous, though."

Anthony pushes a hand through his hair. "And so would Bree and I - half the police force knows we're werewolves since half the police force is also part of our mother's pack. They'd know we were up to something unless we had official business at the station."

"Oh, no," Bree says. "I'm not getting arrested for this. No way. Next idea!"

Ella shifts impatiently. "Fine. Do we know anybody who can just hack into the police server?"

And all at once, Bree, Alice, Peter, and Lillian all say: " _Jasper_."

Ella blinks. "Jasper?"

"Yep," Bree confirms. "Jasper."

Ella shakes her head, dumbfounded. "Jasper, who I have never once seen sober? Jasper, who giggles at kitten postcards? Jasper, who moons over Alice?" She pauses, then gestures sharply to where Jasper has been sprawled on the floor for the last half-hour. "Jasper, who is currently _sleeping on the floor_? _That_ Jasper?"

Peter grins proudly. "That would be the one."

"You're kidding," Ella says in disbelief.

"They aren't," Lillian says with a small smile, thoroughly amused by how much Ella has underestimated her younger brother.

"He's a computer science major," Alice reminds everyone. She then promptly blushes at the attention, because _isn't that interesting_ that Alice knows Jasper's degree major even though she spends all of her time actively ignoring his besotted, lovesick behavior?

Bree takes mercy and chimes in with a peppy, "And he's a lot smarter than he looks. He was our valedictorian. Or he was supposed to be. He kind of slept through the ceremony."

"Its actually a bad habit of his. Maybe he should see a doctor?" Peter wonders worriedly.

Ella rolls his eyes. "He can see a doctor later. Someone get a computer and wake up the narcoleptic," she says. "We have autopsy reports to filch."

* * *

 **A/N: Even infinite power has to have some limits!**

 **As a reminder - Alice and Vera are cousins, Peter and Liam are cousins, Lillian and Jasper are siblings.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	73. part 5: 18: boy with the dragon poster

**eighteen**

 **the boy with the dragon poster**

* * *

On the Viridity campus, there are only two dorms that are dedicated entirely to only-human occupants and of those it is Hollis Hall that houses male students, as evidenced by the ripe scent of pizza and stale laundry that greets every entrance into the building. As Peter is housed in the co-ed building for students who are potentials - Prospect Hall - it is only Riley and Jasper who are able to admit entrance to visitors.

The large group has been whittled down since the meeting at Red Lily Hall; Lillian has dragged Vera and Liam to the library to research any legal loopholes available for their purposes, Bree has a previous study group engagement, and once Riley has successfully signed Anthony, Alice, Peter, and Ella in as visitors at Hollis, he disappears onto the second floor. They are left with the lazily slouch-shouldered Jasper, who is still blinking sleepily even after being woken so abruptly not fifteen minutes earlier.

Ella is, in a word, skeptical.

"Come on, buddy," Peter says, clapping Jasper on the shoulder and steering him toward the stairs. "Let's go do something nefarious, yeah?"

Alice carefully slips out of her ivory peacoat, folding it over her arm and narrowing her eyes at Peter with haughty dissatisfaction. "Let us not characterize this as anything unsavory."

Peter's dark hair flops into his eyes. "Uh, alright. But, like, it is _kind of_ unsavory to hack into the servers of a police department just for the sole purpose of purloining files on dead-"

Jasper snickers suddenly, cutting Peter off - thankfully before Peter can finish detailing the _definitely_ _illegal_ activity they were all about to be deeply involved in - and says, " _Purloined_ " like it's the funniest word in the world. Which, to Jasper, it probably is.

Ella sighs heavily. "Are you even capable of doing this when you're so baked?"

Jasper's lips smile into an easy grin. "Yeah, sure."

"That sounds confident," she mutters. Still, as Jasper and Peter go up the stairs, with Alice following along with a faintly disgusted crinkle to her nose, Ella knows this is the best option. But putting her faith into someone more interested in toking up then doing something with his alleged intelligence seems like a sketchy plan, to say the least. Ella quirks a brow at Anthony, who has been looming silently, and asks, "Don't you have any doubts about Mr. Robot, or anything? Do you really think he can do this?"

He shrugs. "Nothing to lose if he fucks up."

"Unless he gets caught _while_ he's messing up," she points out caustically.

"Then if that happens and Jasper gets caught, the Charmstone police will be kicking down his doors and dragging him off to the station, won't they? And then at least we'll have an excuse to be at the station without raising any alarms."

Ella stares at Anthony, caught by the ruthless pragmatism he'd expressed so casually. And then the thought comes: _Why didn't I think of that_? And maybe she's only so taken because Anthony is usually so quiet or otherwise prickly that she wouldn't be inclined to think he's tuned in at all. But he is. Anthony sees _everything_ \- and more than that, he's cunning about it. Shrewd.

He slants an unruffled glance at her, a lock of curly toffee hair falling over his forehead. "You plan on standing here all night or what?"

She huffs at him and starts for the stairs. "This better work," she mutters, dialing in on Peter's lifeline and following it up to the third floor.

"It will," he says, falling into step right behind her.

Ella wonders if that kind of unapologetic attitude is a thing that comes with being a werewolf, or if the Masen's are just wired that way. She supposes it doesn't matter; she can be pragmatic, too, and she recognizes that she can use that attitude to her advantage. Maybe even learn from it.

Jasper's room is dark and hazy, partially from the navy sheet he has pinned crookedly over his window and partially from the lingering, skunk-sweet scent rolling through the room. There is an overlaying scent of clove cigarettes that is overpowering enough that Anthony _almost_ sneezes - by the way his brows lower, he holds in this automatic response by sheer force of _grump_. Pretty impressive, but also unnecessary because Ella takes a whiff, catches one withering look from Alice, and rolls her eyes, silently casting an air filtration spell - _the fresh and air runes are useful -_ to clear the space so they can comfortably close the door without getting a second-hand high.

"Thank you," Alice says emphatically, if not a little stiffly.

"Hey, hey, do you think you could do the bathroom in my dorm? Because let me tell you, the stench is enough to-"

"Peter," Ella says sharply. "So not the time."

"Oh, right."

They all look to Jasper, who appears to have used his time wisely enough. His set up is pretty sweet so far as other computer enthusiasts might appreciate; Ella, who has no inclination toward technology beyond what is most convenient, is only interested in how those three flat-screen monitors and cordless keyboard can be used for their purposes. Jasper unhurriedly flicks on the screens and fiddles with the mouse, propping the keyboard on his lap as he leans back in a black leather desk chair. His computer station takes up the majority of his room, shunting the bed against his closet in favor of giving the CPU towers breathing room. There is a poster of a fairly impressive dragon pasted over his desk, a depiction of Smaug breathing fire and death over Laketown.

Jasper spins in a slow circle. "So should I just…?"

It's probably the first time she's heard him speak in any manner that is remotely serious and there is a certain sharpness beneath the casualty that is striking. Now that she's onto him, Ella doesn't think she'll be falling for his stoner-high façade so often. The reasons why he chooses to slack off are his own, though, and probably more concerning to Alice than anyone else - so all Ella does in response to his leading question is to stride forward, twist his chair to face the monitor, and curtly remind him of what their ultimate goal is.

"Autopsy reports."

"All of them," Anthony intones lowly. "And all of the investigation files you can find, current and past, solved or unsolved."

Ella looks to him sharply, but the wisdom of these additional requests is not lost on her. If Charmstone PD has made a bad habit of slow police work, if something has fallen through the cracks, if murders like this have happened in Charmstone before - they need to know. It's all relevant because it's all being hidden. Everything is fair game.

Jasper opens up a black-screen command prompt on the middle monitor and begins typing, click-clacking at a stunning speed. "Shouldn't be a problem. Their firewall is shit," he comments idly.

"I feel like I'm in one of those crime scene investigation shows," Peter says to nobody in particular. "I wonder which one?"

"The one where you shut up," Ella tells him.

He pouts at her. "You're so salty."

"Hush," Alice chides, peering intently at the screens.

Jasper pauses, looking up at her with clear eyes. "Did you want to sit down? Here, I can-" He shifts in his seat, as if to offer it to her even though he still has use of it. Jasper fumbles with the keyboard, almost dropping it in his distracted bid.

"No, no," Alice says quickly. She steps back, hovering in the middle of the room between the computers and the doorway, caught between everyone else. Pink tinges her cheeks. "Just do what you were doing."

Jasper licks his lips. "Are you sure? I'll-"

Ella kicks the rolling leg of his chair. "Autopsies."

"Don't make Ella mad," Peter warns as Jasper turns back to his task, albeit reluctantly now that Alice's existence has been brought to the forefront of his mind. "You wouldn't like her when she's angry."

Ella glares at him in disbelief. "I am not the Hulk. Don't make me sound like I'm the Hulk."

"Of course not," Peter agrees consolingly. "You would be She-Hulk."

She snorts at his matter-of-fact tone. "Dumbass."

Thankfully, Jasper isn't distracted by anyone's antics for several long minutes. And Ella doesn't know if Jasper is just very good or if Charmstone PD is just that easy to hack into, but in a matter of twenty minutes, most of which are spent listening to Peter banter to anyone who will respond - notably, he does not try to banter with Anthony - Jasper's printer abruptly kicks on. Page after page is spit out onto the floor and Alice takes it upon herself to begin sorting papers into order, employing Peter in her quest for organization.

For his part, Anthony takes that moment to join Ella as she leans over Jasper's shoulder, each of them squinting at the computer screen's on either side of the main one Jasper is working with. It takes a while to figure out the wording of the form, especially since half of the paperwork seems to be scanned into the system and the other half entered on the computer, making for a lot of repetitive information.

But then Ella sees something that makes her pause. "What does that say?" Ella reaches forward, tapping at the screen with her nail.

Wordlessly, Jasper enlarges the form she's been staring at - rather, the autopsy report, officially filed as of the night before. The most recent hiker. "Huh. Looks like they processed this one faster than the other hiker," he says.

"Wonder why?" Peter asks, abandoning Alice's efforts to brace himself on the back of Jasper's chair.

"Probably because it was the second one," Ella reasons.

"Or because of this," Anthony says grimly. He appears to have stumbled on the first autopsy, the one from the first dead hiker, and whatever is in there is serious enough that his jaw has clenched.

Peter leans toward Anthony's screen, then recoils, a bit green at the gills. "Oh, now that's just gross."

"I concur," Jasper agrees.

"What?" Ella's eyes trace over the screen and then she feels her magic jump in response, causing the computer screen to flicker erratically for several moments until she can get a handle on it. Her stomach churns. "Am I reading that right?"

"You are," Alice breathes. She's holding a physical copy of the autopsy report, wide-eyed and pale as death.

" _Victim shows evidence of violent struggle. Found: liquid in lungs. Depletion of oxygen in blood,_ " Anthony recites stoically. He breathes out, then continues, as if feeling the gravity of the next revelation. " _Horizontal evisceration of victim secondary cause of death. Primary cause: removal of heart from chest cavity. Note: no heart left at scene or recovered. Note: no other internal organs missing."_

"So fucked up," Peter whispers.

Jasper clears his throat and pointedly goes back to closing out of the Charmstone PD servers, hopefully covering his tracks while the rest of them reel. He's probably regretting helping them now.

Ella paces in a tight line, arms crossed over her chest. Her stomach is churning uncomfortably; if she weren't so confident in her own constitution, she'd think she was about to throw up. She snatches the papers from Alice's loose grip, looking them over for herself with a mighty frown slashed across her face. "We already knew about the drowning. Near-drowning," she corrects, looking up to Anthony, the only one who has held his composure. "But am I reading this right? Was this girl's heart ripped out of her chest?"

Anthony meets her eyes, the amber-green flashing lupine gold as he nods with a stone-faced expression. "You're not wrong. Two women, nearly drowned and missing their hearts."

" _So_ fucked up," Peter repeats.

Ella fists the paper, crumpling the hard-won autopsy in her hand. "Well, what the _hell_ kind of thing only takes the _heart_?" she finally exclaims.

Nobody can answer her.

Not yet, anyway.

* * *

 **A/N: A very good question, Ella. Nobody has guessed right yet and honestly, probably nobody will - I took _great_ artistic license with the beastie. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	74. part 5: 19: person, this is personality

**nineteen**

 **person, this is your personality**

* * *

"Would you please look at the list on this paper?"

Kebi slides a simple white printout across the coffee table, then leans back with her hands folded over her pregnant stomach to wait patiently for Ella to do as asked. Ella does not want to read that paper. The last hour in this session with Kebi had involved a lot of reading on Ella's part - a series of psychometric tests with things like _personality assessment_ printed boldly on top - and the last thing she wants to do keep going after Kebi had just spent another twenty minutes going over the results of those tests with a damnably placid expression. She'd really rather just leave.

Ella picks up the paper, brows furrowed at the assortment of symptoms presented. "What is this?"

Kebi is unmoved by Ella's caustic tone. "Please, read through the list and tell me if any of those symptoms feel familiar to you - if you've ever experienced them. Take your time."

Pursing her lips in confusion, Ella's eyes again fall to the list, balking at some of the terminology there. Disturbed sense of identity? Dissociation? Splitting?

She glances up at Kebi, then back at the list. Ella sighs, shifting back against the couch. "Alright. I guess…trying to avoid abandonment, either real or imagined…I've done that. Intense and uncontrollably emotional reactions? Yeah. Impulsive behaviors, that's me, too…especially the, uh, substance abuse and unsafe sex parts…" Ella hesitates briefly, thinking of the self-inflicted wounds from her early teens and the scars that would never, ever fade. "Self-harming behavior? Definitely that. But what's this splitting thing?"

"It's a type of thinking, a black-and-white view of the world, typically when you alternate between idealization and devaluation of a person or a relationship," Kebi answers smoothly.

Ella thinks to how she treated and thought of Carlisle when she'd perceived herself betrayed by his lies omissions and frowns. "I guess that one, too. Kind of. And unstable interpersonal relationships, too," she adds after going over the list again. "Maybe…I mean, distorted self-image is…Some days, I don't know who I am, you know, or what I want to be. It's just…I'm empty inside, unless I'm angry."

Kebi asks her to count out the bullet points that Ella has pointed out.

"Six out of nine," she says, sliding the paper back across the coffee table.

"And do you feel like those characteristics are accurate? That you identify with each of the ones you spoke about?"

Ella nods, silent and tense. She twists the cracked ring on her finger, over and over.

"Very well," Kebi murmurs. She takes a moment to collect papers around her, shuffling through them thoughtfully. Ella thinks that it's probably designed to give her time to calm down and relax again, and it works because as the seconds tic by, Ella sinks back against the couch cushions, skin and magic settling around her. Kebi straightens the last paper and directs a calm smile to Ella. "Now, I am going to use the word _diagnosis_ and I want you to know that having a term to describe what you're going through in no way makes you inferior in anyway. By identifying your symptoms, we can better handle how to alter your maladaptive behaviors and transform them into healthier coping strategies. Agreed?"

Ella licks her lips. "I understand."

"It is in my professional opinion, Ella, that you suffer from something called a personality disorder. Borderline personality disorder with antisocial features, in fact," Kebi says levelly. "Having just looked over the symptomology yourself and identifying six of the nine classic features of the disorder, as well as the scores from the tests you took earlier, I am fairly confident in this diagnosis."

Ella clenches her teeth together, mind reeling. A personality disorder. It's crazy, but Ella's first reaction is to be _pissed_ that this is happening _now_ \- when there's two dead hikers and probably more to come and an entire town that needs protecting from fuck knows what and _now_ Ella is officially and formally fucked in the head? Really? She's infuriated and it must show, because Kebi says nothing for a long moment, making no comment at the way her entire office seems to rattle itself to the tune of the fluctuation of Ella's magic.

Then, before Ella has even finished the breathing exercises Kebi has taught her, she spits out a terse question. "So, what, am I going to be drugged to the gills now?"

"Borderline personality disorder is not something that is cured with medications," Kebi says mildly. "In fact, the disorder has no cure at all. This is a lifelong disorder, Ella, as are most, if not all, personality disorders. And while there are certainly medications I could recommend a psychiatrist prescribe for you that would certainly aid in regulating your moods, I don't think that you would be comfortable with a biological intervention…if your magical constitution would even allow for such an intervention."

"Then _what?"_ Ella snaps, gesturing wildly. "What now? I'm mentally unstable, right? I mean, I was right, there's something _wrong_ in my head, but you can't fix it? I'm not _fixable_?"

"Recall that having any mental health diagnosis does not make you inferior, Ella."

"Right, sure it doesn't."

Kebi offers a serene look. "The best treatment for BPD is long-term psychotherapy where we will work together in creating healthy coping strategies for stress, curb maladaptive behaviors, and learn to identify when your thoughts and behaviors become disruptive to your life and daily functioning."

"That's it?" Ella asks in disbelief. "It's that easy?"

"It is by no means a simple undertaking, but yes," Kebi responds. "A great deal of success relies on how much effort you put into monitoring your behavior. You are the only one who can learn how to regulate your moods and thoughts and actions, Ella. I am here only to help guide you in a direction that is best for your safety and the safety of others."

Ella averts her eyes, feeling her magic simmer back down even as a weight presses against her chest. Anxiety, she knows. She aches keenly for something, someone, some kind of comfort and at the same time doesn't want anyone near her for a long, long time.

"I am going to give you some literature on the disorder so you can learn about it before our next session."

"Okay."

"There is no reason why you cannot lead a normal, subjectively happy life, Ella," Kebi says seriously.

Ella huffs out a humorless sound. "As normal as anything can be in this town."

* * *

 **A/N: Fun fact! Some studies show that people diagnosed with borderline personality disorder respond better to receiving the formal diagnosis if they are able to first identify their symptoms. Additionally, BPD is a very interesting, very complicated disorder that by no means presents the same in all people; it is closely related to mood disorders, such as bipolar disorder, and is often comorbid with other personality disorders, hence Ella's _antisocial features_ caveat. And the stuff about treatment, how there isn't really a medication and that psychotherapy in the long-term is the best option? All totally factual.**

 **For more information, visit the NAMI website. Also, you can pledge to be #StigmaFree about mental health at NAMI.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	75. part 5: 20: spin me 'round

**twenty**

 **spin me 'round**

* * *

February in Charmstone is the kind of bitter cold that inspires anybody with two brain cells to rub together to seek shelter and to only emerge when the thaw begins. It is the last breath of winter, a tenacious icy grip that leaves the Viridity campus coated in frost. It matches the low-key numbness of her mood for the past week; she's reeling from the diagnosis, hasn't even brought it up with Carlisle because then it would be too…real. And Ella has about had it with real for the moment and she's been avoiding everyone because of it.

There are some things that cannot be avoided, though. Things that shouldn't be avoided.

Truth be told, Ella has never had a fondness for February, or in the inane commercial-card, chocolate-and-flower romanticism that stains the entire month. She does, however, know at least one person who seems just the type to be ridiculously enthused about the upcoming holiday. And he's nowhere to be found.

Absurd as it is, after classes end and she escapes from Black's weighty stare from her studio hour, Ella finds herself on a mission. She strides across campus, following a particular strand of an energetic, bright orange lifeline toward one of the smaller libraries on the southern end. She is on the hunt for a gangly, floppy-haired mostly-human who has made a habit of burrowing beneath mountains of books in his quest to answer the unanswerable. Or at least narrow down the search field of what is killing hikers out in the forest - preferably before there's another victim.

But as nice as it is that Peter is so determined, Ella is growing concerned about him. Maybe it's her recent self-discovery about mental health or maybe Riley was right and Peter does grow on people in an oddly fungi-like way, but as soon as it dawned on Ella that she hadn't been randomly accosted on campus since Jasper had hacked the police department, she'd felt compelled to look into Peter's wellbeing. He is, after all, the closest friend she had ever had. Which is surprising for so many reasons.

She doesn't bother doing a sweep of the library upper levels, instead bypassing the half-awake student librarian at the front desk and trotting down the stairs mostly hidden behind a rack of National Geographic magazines. Every library on campus has some variation of a secondary book collection, usually in the basement with a tacit honor-system promise to not remove these peculiar books from the collection. Well, that and a subtle spell woven around the books that discourages taking the books home. The spell is kind of a joke to Ella, but she supposes it might work for others.

It apparently works for _Peter_ , because by the looks of things, it hadn't even occurred to him to _try_ and remove the books. She stops to take in the vision she is presented with; Peter with three walls of books stacked around him, a highlighter mark drawn across his chin, hair greasy, powdered cheese on his lips, a pair of reading glasses askew on the bridge of his nose, and a positively frenetic energy vibrating off him.

"For fuck's sake," she breathes in shock. "When was the last time you saw the sun? You look like shit. I didn't even know it was possible for someone to look this bad."

Peter startles violently, springing up from the table and knocking over a stack of books. Ella snaps, halting the tumbling in the process while he stutters at her. "Ella? What're you doing here? Is it - it's another hiker, isn't it? Oh, my God, why can't we just have garden variety murders in this stupid town-"

She scans over him again. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Sleep?" he parrots blankly.

Ella squints at him. "Is that….It is. You have the word _nymph_ stained on your cheek. You're looking at nymphs?"

Peter scrubs his hands over his eyes, subsequently knocking his wire-framed glasses clear off his face. "Among other things," he mutters. "Do you know how many things live in the water? Or kill in the water? Or like drowning their victims? Let me tell you, it's almost as many things that like gutting their prey. Or eating internal organs. And hey, maybe it isn't the _whole_ heart, you know. Maybe it's just the -"

Ella sighs, marches forward, and hooks her fingers in the back of his grungy, unwashed-boy smelling hoodie, giving a solid _tug_ until Peter is uprooted from his seat and flapping his hands at her. "Hey, hey, hey! What's this? Easy with the precious merchandise, meaning me!"

Ella eases her grip on his shirt, turning Peter forcibly by the shoulders and applying some very quick, very necessary hygiene spells with her nose wrinkled in distaste. "I'm here to remind you that since you aren't a bear, you can't actually hibernate with all these books and expect to come out alive. Or sane," she adds with another look at the obsessive little burrow he'd made for himself.

Peter frowns at her, instantly distracted. "I'm not a bear?"

"No," she says immediately. Because real-bear or gay-man-type-bear, Peter is neither. By any means.

"Excuse you, but I could totally _age_ into a bear."

"No, you really couldn't," she says, casting a final spell. She's satisfied that he's as clean as he's going to get without succumbing to a shower.

"I'm manly," he tells her in offense.

Ella snorts.

Peter pulls at the neck of his _Green Lantern_ hoodie, exposing an olive-toned sliver of smooth skin. "I have chest hair! And _stubble_ and _muscle definition_ and, alright, maybe it's not as impressive as certain grumpy, growly werewolves, but I could conceivably be considered a bear sometime in the future, like."

She shakes her head. "See, now I have proof that you've been spending too much time alone. Clearly, you're deluded."

"I don't like you, anymore," he decides.

"You need coffee and you'll change your mind. Let's go."

Peter hesitates, casting a longing look to the book-laden table she has forcibly made him abandon.

Ella sighs. "The books aren't going any where."

He still doesn't move.

She drops her head back. "Fine," she groans. "Would it make you feel better if I made it impossible for anyone to come down here and disturb…whatever the hell this is?"

Peter grins, a little tiredly. "If you do, I'll love you forever."

Ella shoves him toward the stairs, then turns to cast a few wards for aversion with barely a flicker of effort. "I thought you loved Riley."

"Different kinds of love, Ella. Different loves."

"Whatever, freak," she says without feeling, frog-marching Peter as far away from the library as reasonably possible. She spends the next half-hour making sure that he's fed and water, albeit grudgingly, and then walks him back to his dorm once fatigue begins to zap at his energy. She vaguely remembers someone doing the same for her when she tried to spend some quality time with the courtyard benches in December - and Peter definitely deserves it more than she had at the time.

After Peter is put to bed - she tucks away his _Star Wars_ sheets for later mockery - Ella feels a tiny bit of relief knowing that she'd done something good for someone else. Someone she cares about. She likes the feeling, even though it's new and strange. This must be one of those behavior-feedback moments that Kebi was talking about.

It's just as she's crossing back toward the Student Center, intent on scoring another cup of coffee for herself before braving Bree's ear-splitting music waiting back at Red Lily Hall, that a feminine voice cuts across the air. "Hey, Ella! Wait up!"

She twists her head around, but she already know who is calling for her just because a sense memory assaults her yet again. Saltwater taffy.

Vera.

* * *

 **A/N: And back to the other arc!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	76. part 5: 21: vera

**twenty one**

 **vera**

* * *

Ella sips at her simple black brew coffee, studying the girl on the other side of the table over the rim of her mug. Somehow, Ella has been hoodwinked into accompanying Vera to the coffee not-date she'd agreed to last month - and has discovered that the capricious girl likes to order the complicated, sugary, more-soy-milk-than-coffee disasters that baristas cringe at making. If anything, with the type of sanctity that Ella gives to coffee, this is confirmation enough that something is afoot.

She sounds like Peter with all the paranoia.

She doesn't think it's out of place to be suspicious, though. Every time she's seen Vera, it seems like she's encountering someone else and predictable nature aside, there's that odd ping of her magic when Vera is near. And that isn't even mentioning the other, drug-fueled, awkward ex-hook-up thing, either.

 _Speaking of which_. Ella places her coffee cup down on the little vinyl table separating their chairs. "I've been meaning to talk to you about that night," Ella says bluntly. And then seeing Vera's blank expression, she artlessly continues, tacking on details that she'd rather not mention in public. "Last semester at that faerie party. With the leaf. And the, uh, reaction to the leaf."

"Oh, that." Vera winks. "Well, I wouldn't mind a repeat performance."

Ella's fingers close tighter around ceramic. She reminds herself that this is Alice's cousin, though how they're related Ella isn't exactly sure. It's not like she's asked Alice about her family tree, or anything. "I don't think that will be happening anytime soon."

Vera pouts. "Too bad. You're a wonderful kisser, you know. A total natural."

"Right," Ella says shortly.

Then she notices, once again, that Vera is somehow _damp_. The ends of her blonde hair are darkened by water, along with the wide hem of her bell-bottom jeans. Ella's eyes flick to the picture windows, taking in the chilly, overcast day and the decided lack of rain that would contribute to Vera's state.

She sips her coffee speculatively. Ella isn't the type to be so cunning as to be able to ask leading questions to get the answers she desires; she's a mallet, not a chisel. So rather baldly, she asks, "Why're you all wet?"

Vera titters, a blush on the apple of her cheeks. "So salacious."

"Not like that," Ella says flatly.

"I know, I know." Vera smiles, twirling her hair around her finger.

There's something very flirtatious about the gesture, about the way her dark blue eyes peer so coyly across the table, and Ella isn't quite sure what to do with it. She isn't high on faerie leaves right now and her guard is up. Ella has always been aware of her bisexuality, a little piece of herself she kept tucked away, kind of out of sight and out of mind because there's always been _other things_ to occupy her thoughts. Vera is objectively attractive, of course, otherwise she wouldn't have been invited to the fae party by art-collector Aro in the first place. But she doesn't make Ella's heart pound, or anything. At least, not in a mutual-attraction kind of way.

Vera smiles guilelessly, tracing her finger over the rim of her sugary drink. "I'm on the swim team here at the university," she confesses. "You seem to always catch me right when I've come from the pool."

"Do I?" Ella wonders, because who swims that much?

Vera doesn't seem to hear the uncertainty in her tone, because she hums in confirmation, and then continues speaking as if compelled. "You know, ever since I was a girl, I've always been afraid of large bodies of waters. I mean it, even those little blow-up kiddie pools would freak me out and according to my mother, bathtime was a massive nightmare." She shakes her head with a pretty, high-gloss, self-deprecating smile. "But one day, I just woke up and tackled my fears."

Ella's eyebrows raise, though not in appreciation as Vera probably assumes. "That's impressive."

"Oh, that's exactly what the captain of the swim team said!" Vera gushes. "I'm so glad I get to practice with them. They say I'm a natural, you know, which is such a relief. I swear, sometimes I feel like I would die if I wasn't in the water…"

Something about that rings as exceptionally odd to Ella. Disturbing, even. Maybe because it seems like Vera has spontaneously taken a 180 degree spin; one day, water is terrifying and the next, she can't live without it. As someone familiar with bouts of extreme states of being, even Ella is wigged by how blasé Vera appears about her own alteration. She wonders if the people around Vera have noticed the change. Certainly Alice hasn't said anything, but then again Vera and Alice don't seem very close for cousins, so maybe Alice wouldn't know.

Unless Alice did know - but didn't know she knows.

Ella pushes her cooled coffee away, tilting her head to the side. "Vera?"

"Hm?"

Ella doesn't bother to phrase her question delicately; she doubts Vera would consider it a prying question, not when Vera seems actively invested in impressing Ella. "When exactly did you get over your water phobia?"

"Mid-December," Vera answers promptly.

"And you didn't think that the middle of winter was a strange time to take up swimming?"

"Not at all," Vera replies innocently.

Like she really doesn't understand just how _unusual_ that is - and it suddenly occurs to Ella that Vera very well might be actually oblivious. Ella sits back and lets Vera's peppy prattling wash over her, easily tuning out the other girl while she peers more closely at Vera's lifeline. It's different than the last time Ella bothered to study it. Somehow less blue, but not tinged with any other color, either. Fainter, maybe. Which is - like, Ella hasn't had the opportunity to see what a lifeline would look like for a person who is dying, but she would be willing to bet that the slow-fade of Vera's lifeline looks exactly like a terminal patient's. She'd put money on it.

What's even more important, though, is the smoky shimmer to Vera's lifeline - a feature that certainly isn't present in any human lifeline she's ever seen. In fact, it looks kind of similar to the way of banshee's lifeline is shrouded in a fog. Sort of. Vera _is not_ a banshee, but she is…something.

 _Great. Another mystery_ , Ella laments silently.

After another ten minutes pass, Ella manages to make up a mostly-tactful excuse that allows her a way to leave Vera's strange presence. Somehow, she manages to not cringe when Vera declares that their coffee date - _not a date -_ was "fun" and that they should "totally do it again, sometime". She makes some noncommittal response, fisted hands tucked into the pockets of her fringe leather jacket, and then books it from the Student Center.

She calls to Raven as inconspicuously as possible, but there just seems to be something ostentatious about a bird that size swooping down from a nearby tree out of the blue and landing on her shoulder. People stare; Ella ignores them.

 _I think we may have a problem_ , she tells Raven.

Her familiar's curiosity filters through their bond and she can tell that Raven is reviewing her memories, prodded along by Ella's sense of urgency that there is no way for her to tramp down or ignore.

 _Yes, this does appear problematic_ , Raven agrees. _Though, I don't suppose you'll have a plan for this, either._

 _I don't do well with plans,_ Ella says. Which is true enough. Ella is often an impulsive, impatient creature. And for that reason, it's why she doesn't hesitate to stride straight to the second floor of Red Lily Hall, rapping on the door at the end of the hallway until it finally opens.

Alice is in what might pass as relaxation clothing, a set of white athletic leggings and a cozy little sweatshirt with a powder blue and white print, a pencil tucked behind her ear neatly. "I'm studying, so this better be very important," Alice says primly, stepping back to allow Ella into her pristine room.

Ella keeps her elbows tucked close. Her jeans are more paint stains and fraying holes than actual fabric, the charcoal on her hands is highly transferable to literally any surface, and she's almost positive she's tracked something in from outside. In Alice's room, Ella feels like one imperfect splotch of a stain. She doesn't know how Alice stays sane in such a neat, white space; Ella thinks _she_ would feel like she was in a psych ward, or something.

Alice is pinning Raven with a cool stare. "If you're going to be here long, the bird cannot be in my room," she says.

Ella ignores her, cutting right to the chase. "What is Vera?"

Alice startles. "Pardon?"

"Vera. Your _cousin_ ," Ella emphasizes.

"My second cousin," Alice corrects automatically. Then, as if doubting Ella's intelligence, she says rather archly, "She's human, of course."

Ella snorts indelicately. "No, she isn't."

"Yes, she is," Alice retorts. "Her entire side of the family is human. The banshee gene skipped over one of my mother's cousins and all of her daughters are human. Really, they aren't even potentials or-"

"Alice," she cuts in seriously. "Believe me, Vera is _not_ human."

Alice's brow crinkles in puzzlement. "If she isn't human, then what is she?"

Ella rolls her eyes. "If I knew, I wouldn't be asking you, would I?"

"I suppose not," Alice murmurs.

Stress pinches at Ella's neck, tightening her shoulders. "I guess you don't know if you have any other creatures lurking the family tree."

"I…I'm not sure. No. Probably not," Alice decides uncertainly.

Alice is clearly reeling, her gimlet eyes locked on something over Ella's shoulder - and Ella presses her lips together about the other bit of suspicion about Vera. About the maybe dying part. Because while Ella is absolutely certain that Vera isn't human, she's not-so-sure about what a fading lifeline might mean.

She only has instinct - and a new plan to research with Peter the next time he feels like hunkering down in the library _before_ this Vera thing snowballs into another crisis on her hands.

* * *

 **A/N: Cousins and unrequited crushes, man, what can I say?**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	77. part 5: 22: unpredictable

**twenty two**

 **unpredictable**

* * *

Raven's voice comes through their bond with absolutely no finesse. _Lillian Hale is gone._

Ella drops the book she's been flipping through for the last twenty minutes - a treatise on water-based magic that, while interesting, is ultimately useless - her head snapping so quickly toward Raven's lifeline beyond the walls of the library that her neck pops audibly. Even though her familiar presents this information unworriedly, Ella can't suppress the stab of incredulous shock that shifts through her body. " _What_?"

Peter startles violently at Ella's sudden bark, his pen scratching across his notebook and onto the desk. He is again on a researching tirade, having caught a second wind by her earlier arrival of blessed coffee, and now he is blinking at her owlishly. "What the what?"

Ella yanks on her jacket, dark hair flipping over her shoulders as she rushes toward the subfloor stairs. "I have to go."

"Wait!" Peter yelps, scrambling away from the table. "Ella, dude! What's happening? Is the building on fire? Are we under attack? It's the Klingons, right? Those bastards!"

When she doesn't respond to the facetious edge in his tone or even slow down her ascent, Peter apparently decides to get with the program, trotting after her as he pulls on an olive green canvas jacket over a _Batman_ sweatshirt. He is louder on the steps than she is and hisses between his teeth, blowing on his hands as they are greeted by the cold February afternoon air. Ella pays him no more mind as she holds her arm out for Raven, again asking, " _What_?"

Raven's onyx eyes glitter. "Lillian Hale has disappeared."

"The bird is talking," Peter bleats. "Actual words and moving-beak and _holy God_ the bird is talking- Wait. Wait, did the bird just say what I think the bird just said? Lillian is missing?"

Ella ignores him. "How do you know?" she asks Raven.

In response, Raven clicks her beak at a vibrating golden lifeline that is quickly coming into center focus - and moments later, Anthony Masen lopes into view, clearly looking for Ella. She wonders why, but then recalls that according to Bree, Lillian Hale has been Anthony's best friend since he was " _inflicted on the greater population in grade school"_. And of course he would come to Ella for help, seeing as how she is uniquely able to find anyone she is remotely familiar with at the drop of a hat.

He stops in front of her, eyes flashing gold. There is a tautness in his body language, like a man on a wire, ready to spring into action. "Lillian is-"

She holds her hand up. "Yeah, I know."

"Can you-"

"I will. I'll try." But before she does, she levels him with a cautious look. "But maybe a banshee would be better suited-"

Anthony nods curtly, the possibility evidently already having occurred to him. Not surprising, considering the town and the recent murders. "Vera is already talking to Alice."

Ella bites her tongue against the nasty retort begging to be set free. _Great_. Vera is involved. Again, it makes sense because Vera is also Lillian's best friend - but still. A lead lump forms in her stomach at the mere notion of Vera's involvement, an unshakeable sense of unease.

Peter makes a distressed noise in the back of his throat, drawing attention to himself. "Wait, hey, yeah - has anyone told Jasper? It's his sister that's missing, so maybe he could-"

Anthony and Ella both express their denial of this idea. "How could he help?" she asks. "This is…from the sound of it, this isn't something a hacker could help with. Actually," Ella pauses, looking at Anthony. "How did you know she was missing."

"Vera said," he replies.

 _Vera._

Ella's magic coils tightly within; now, she understands why Raven was motivated to find her so quickly. Her field of vision narrows, the rest of the world falling away as the pulls the crisscrossing lifelines to the fore, a thousand silk-thin strands of energy unique to each person. It's difficult to filter for humans - supernatural creatures are so much more easy to track because their lifelines have an extra _something_ that makes them stand out - but Ella has had practice with Peter. It takes her several minutes before she hones in on a lifeline that feels somewhat similar to Jasper's, but more refined, a worldly royal purple that is -

Ella recoils.

Lillian's lifeline is changing. Like, _right now_.

"We have to go," she says urgently to Anthony and he nods, tucking his chin once.

"Lead the way."

"I'm coming with!" Peter declares.

Ella wheels around, a fierce scowl already darkening her expression. "No, you're not. You're staying here."

"Why, because I'm human?" Peter challenges.

"Yes."

"I'm not dead weight!"

"Nobody said you were!"

"And you might need me! I've been reading up on all the possibilities more than anyone, so if you come across something that needs to be exterminated, the chances are that I've got the how-to guide in my head!"

"Peter-"

"This is wasting time," Anthony growls.

Ella fumes, but there isn't anything she can do. She isn't Peter's keeper; if he wants to come and endanger himself, that's his choice. And in the end, Peter isn't the only one tagging along that probably shouldn't, because as Ella leads them out of the Viridity main gate, they are joined by Alice and Vera - one looking significantly more concerned than the other. Vera is totally checked-out of the world, swaying along behind the group as Ella quickly confers with Alice, checking that Lillian isn't bleeding out in the forest. As far as Alice can tell, Lillian is fine, but Ella isn't convinced. There's something going on with Lillian's lifeline that is…not right. The more time that passes, the more Lillian's royal purple begins to twine with a deep, almost black midnight blue, creeping upward on her lifeline like crawling ivy.

Ella doesn't like it.

Yet, she feels as if she's seen it before. There is something familiar about the change.

Following Lillian's lifeline leads them directly into the Charmstone forest and as they trickle past the tree line, Peter says what everyone must be thinking. "Oh, _man_ , isn't this place banned right now?"

"Guess Lillian didn't agree," Ella mutters.

Anthony is silent, but he isn't disagreeing with the implication. His friend has been very foolish.

As they continue clambering through the bramble of the forest, skirting around the odd breakage from heavy snowfall over the winter season, it becomes rapidly apparent that Lillian hadn't gone just anywhere in the forest - she'd gone to Beacon Lake. Once Ella realizes this, she picks up the pace, sending Raven overhead to fly ahead and alert them to anything hinky happening; Alice and Peter keep up as best as they can and Vera glides almost slothfully, not worried in the slightest even though she'd been the one to bring Lillian's disappearance to attention. Or maybe for that reason.

 _Oh_ , comes Raven's voice through the bond _. Well, now that is interesting_.

 _What? What is it_?

 _Something very rare_ , is Raven's enigmatic reply.

 _Very helpful, thanks._

Magic thrumming a steady beat, Ella declines mentioning that Raven had actually seen something; they're close enough themselves that they'll find out soon and she doesn't see the point of drawing more attention to them than strictly necessary. She's very aware that although the woods seem calm and the ley lines are undisturbed, there _is_ something lurking in the waters connected to Beacon Lake.

Several tense minutes later, they come across the break in trees that leads to the shore of Beacon Lake. Ella has only been this far out once before, at the end of summer to hunt the red caps, but the familiarity is not soothing.

Because the water is churning, lapping white foam at the pebbly shoreline - at Lillian Hale's bare feet as she stands just shy of the water. Transfixed.

"Lillian!" Anthony calls out, making to rush forward and forcibly pull Lillian away from the turbulent lake.

Ella's hand darts out, hooking onto his elbow just before he slams into the barrier nobody else can see - a midnight blue ward crackling protectively just ahead of them, centered around Lillian with jealous guard. No telling what something like that would do to a werewolf. "It's too late," she tells him, taking every detail in very, very carefully. She studies the ward, wondering if she could bring it down through sheer force of will.

Maybe.

Alice brings a hand to her mouth. "Oh, my…"

"She's holding something," Peter says, squinting. "What is that? Is that…is that a silver necklace?"

"Might be," Ella confirms, shaking her head. "There's a spell on it, though. Old. Powerful. Not…the kind of magic I've seen before."

"Ohhh," Peter breathes and there is a look of dawning realization on his face, a light bulb going off.

Anthony snaps to attention. "What?"

Peter rises up on his toes, trading concern for excitement. "Ohh, hold _crap_. I know what this is," he tells them. "I just read about it. Dude, I had _no idea_ this still happened."

"Peter, stop with the cryptic and get with the details," Ella demands.

But then there is a violent wave on the shore - and something lunges out of the water at Lillian, only to pull her into the depths the very next moment. And Ella is done being cautious. She hauls her magic forward, bracing her hands against the solid ward and spreading her fingers. Silvery energy spills forth, steaming and burning against the darker magic, and she grits her teeth at the way the magic shoves back against her. A warning that she ignores, pouring more of her magic into her hands, heart pounding in her ears.

Lillian is under water, caught by the thing that's been killing hikers -

Ella isn't about to just let her _die_.

The dark ward crumbles and the instant it does, Anthony darts forward, half-shifted with claws and fang and a rumble in his throat. Alice cries out; Vera begins humming to herself; and Peter clumsily follows after Ella, calling out, "Wait, don't! It's not what you think!"

Ella shoots him a steely glare, rushing toward the water with magic building in her palms. "Then what is it?"

Peter turns to answer her, but he stumbles on a log and falls, skidding across the shore - just far enough that his hand touches the water. And to Ella's horror, Peter is immediately pulled into the water, lapis lazuli eyes wide in fright as another impossibly massive wave splashes outward. He doesn't even have a chance to scream before he is pulled under, following right after Lillian. Ella screams for Peter -

But then something is rising out of the water and it is shoving Anthony onto his back and Alice is chanting something incomprehensible in the background -

And then there is a voice, low and male and musical. And powerful. "You really should have listened to the boy."

* * *

 **A/N: Oh no! I've been teasing about it on Facebook, but I actually did the thing. #sorrynotsorry for Peter lovers (he's a surprisingly popular character for how much people didn't like him at the beginning lol). Also, the silver necklace is _definitely_ a clue for the creature. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	78. part 5: 23: waterhorse

**twenty three**

 **waterhorse**

* * *

 _They aren't dead_.

Ella doesn't know who thinks it - Raven or herself - but she knows it's true just by looking at the shivery pulse of the lifelines stretching into the water. One is stronger than the other because whatever magic Lillian has stumbled upon with that necklace is helping keep her alive, but Peter's orange lifeline is strumming with vitality. It's his spark of magic waking up and fighting for his life -

Buying Ella time to _save_ his life.

(She's been there. When Magic wants someone to live, Magic typically gets its way, and Magic clearly has decided that Peter isn't done, yet. Ella isn't familiar with _hope_ or trusting in anything but herself; she's a cynic, a pessimist, a realist. But right now, she's leaning on a newfound optimism, a oldworld trust that something greater than herself - that Magic - will come through.)

Anthony rolls onto his feet, but stays in a low crouch. It is just him and Ella against the thing that rises from Beacon Lake, because Alice has taken to making aborted, high-pitched noises and Vera is still humming incessantly in the background.

"Give them back," Ella demands, the silvery magic in her hand growing hotter by the second. There isn't a spell in her mind; this is just her raw magic, fueled by rage and fear, and it will be destructive the moment she lets it loose. She holds back by the skin of her teeth, though, trying to figure out what she's up against, and she can tell that Anthony is doing the same, even as he slowly edges closer to her, closing the gap between them measuredly.

She doesn't think she's seeing things when the midnight blue aura of the creature shifts between man-shaped and horse-shaped, even though the thing itself doesn't alter appearance. A shapeshifter, then. Male, built strappingly and devastatingly handsome, with wild glossy jet curls brushing the top of his shoulders, fair skin, and eyes such a dark blue they might as well be black. And although he is emerging from the churning lake with a slow sort of leisure, he isn't wet in the least; his period-clothing, a ruffle-necked linen blouse, close-fitting trousers, and tall riding boots, are all bone dry. Like the water can't touch him.

It has a powerful sort of elemental magic that makes her teeth ache. So old she almost can't wrap her mind around it - this thing must have been around for the Revolutionary War.

The creature regards them reservedly. "My, this is very interesting," he muses, stepping onto the shore with his head tilted to the side.

Ella releases the burning magic built up in her palm, the sigils on her skin and covered by her long sleeves itching something fierce, the magician's glass cracking a fraction more, cloudy and red. As the magic leaves her palm, it releases a loud lightning-crack - but it misses her target, as the creature simply twists his torso to the side, appearing utterly unbothered by the threat. And she doesn't quite get it because, yeah, she can tell that this thing is _strong_ , but she knows she's stronger.

Yet the creature isn't perturbed in the least. She falters at this, mind whirring, and flicks her eyes to Raven in question. _What is it?_

 _One of two things. Try not to anger him, he's only protecting what is his._

 _Peter and Lillian are_ not _his_. But even as she thinks it, she wonders why only the first part of that statement felt true - like Lillian had been lost for _a while_ and there's nothing to be done about it. She couldn't be fully recovered at this point.

(Something niggles in the back of her mind about the change in Lillian's lifeline - about the merging of two colors. But her focus slips away, reticent in the face of bigger problems.)

"That was not very kind," he says.

Anthony snarls, close enough now that Ella could reach for him if she wanted to. He's angled his body to be turned halfway toward her with one shoulder leaning toward the creature, balanced on the balls of his feet. Still like a predator, golden eyes tracking everything. Calculating in a way that Ella simply cannot - which she's glad for, because their chances are better if at least one of them isn't impulsive.

Her lip curls at the creature. "I'm not feeling very nice, right now. Give back my friends-"

"Mmm, no, not yet. Worry not," says the creature. "I have no intention of harming the boy."

"And Lillian?" Anthony growls, claws curling.

The creature's eyes flash darkly, his bearing twice as threatening in a split second just at the mention of the girl who found his necklace. "You need not concern yourself with the girl. She is not yours to worry about."

 _That's proprietary_ , Ella realizes.

 _Yes, it is_ , Raven confirms. She circles over the water, seeming to focus on one place a quarter of the way from the shore, and Ella knows that Raven has pinpointed exactly where Lillian and Peter are beneath the murky waves. And guided by nothing else but a desire to incapacitate the creature so that she can get to her friend, Ella releases another slash of magic, this one edge with hot-blue fire.

The creature again dodges, then frowns minutely at her. "I do so wish you would cease doing that. Terribly bothersome."

Behind her, Alice suddenly quiets, and Ella takes a small amount of comfort in that; if Alice isn't screaming, then nobody is dead. Yet. The same cannot be said for Vera, who seems to be singing to herself now, slowly becoming louder. Ella shivers as she realizes this matches up to the way that Peter's orange lifeline begins to dim - slowly.

"What have we here?" the creature continues interestedly. "An alpha werewolf, not surprising given the territory, although I haven't see one so young in a very long while. An inherited power, I presume? Hmm…A banshee just coming into her own and quite overwhelmed by the looks of it. Don't worry, daughter of the White Lady, if you survive this year with your sanity intact, you'll be just fine… And, yes, a rare little nixie, already on the brink. How delightful. "

Ella glares at him. "What are you talking about?"

The creature smiles, showing off a perfectly dimpled smile. "Oh, you didn't know? Why, you've a second harbinger on your hands, a cousin of stronger-willed banshees. Don't feel too bad for missing it - nixies _are_ terribly uncommon and they don't tend to live very long. They have only one prediction, one song to pierce the veil, you know, and there is a steep price to pay for it."

 _He's trying to distract you_ , Raven notes.

And yeah - Ella got that. She's pissed that it was working. Mad enough that she lurches forward, raising her hands from her hips all the way up over hear head in a smooth arc, and a giant force of her magic shoves forward. The creature tries again to dodge, but the magic passes right over him. Because the creature wasn't her target, this time.

Ella is aiming for the water.

Wrongfooted and off balance, the creature has left himself open to attack from Anthony, who pounces on the opportunity Ella has given him. Any other time, she thinks, she might be distracted by the graceful, deadly edge of Anthony's skill as he goes to blows with the creature, swiping with claws to draw blood - to main or kill, it doesn't matter. But right now, Ella isn't waylaid by Anthony's compelling presence. Her entire being, magic and all, is centered on shoving her magic outward -

The water fights her as only a force of nature can, but Ella's will is grounded in the earth, in the magic that she pulls from the ley lines, and the water soon does as she bids. The waves peel backward, rising in a tall tide as she pushes and pushes until half the lake is walled off by her magic, like the parting of the Red Sea, or something. And right below where Raven had been circling is Lillian and Peter; Lillian is standing calmly and is dry just like the creature, but Peter is soaked to the bone and -

And not breathing.

"Alice," she snaps, holding the water in place. A drip of sweat rolls down her neck, abdominal muscles cramped with the effort of holding everything immobile. If she had another hand, she could get them out herself, but as it is, she's bracing everything herself. Water is not a natural element of hers, too sanguine, and it shows in how difficult this display of power really is.

Alice springs forward, hurrying to the shore and then down the slow decline to the bottom of the exposed lake. She tugs on Lillian's sleeve to get her attention and then drops down, hooking her slight arms around Peter's shoulders and rolling him onto his side, prodding at his back urgently. Still, nothing happens.

"For _fuck's sake_ , Peter!" Ella yells, briefly lowering her left hand to literally slam magic against his lifeline, and then raising her hand again to hold the water steady.

Vera stops singing.

The jolt of her magic against his spark seems to do the trick, because Peter is suddenly sputtering, water seeping from his mouth and lungs as he wobbles onto his hands and knees. He is heaving even as Alice struggles to help him up, but she is too small and Lillian is staring at the creature, so she's absolutely no help at all.

Fed up with it, Ella grits her teeth and calls more magic through to her right hand - and even though the magician's glass finally finishes cracking completely and the bones in her hands are vibrating painfully from such a degree of magical conduit, she is able to hold the lake water relatively steady. Long enough that she can bark out Anthony's name and jab her left hand at the creature, flinging him up against a tree with the same spell she's using for the lake while Anthony leaps into the lakebed and helps Alice haul everyone out.

Her magical attention is split for only as long as it takes for everyone to clear the shoreline, and then she is releasing the lake on a huge exhale, the water surging violently. She has somehow bitten clean through her lip and tastes the blood even as she funnels the remaining magic she's borrowed from the ley lines right at the creature -

His form blurs between horse and man before settling almost reluctantly on man - and as full as she is with magic, the way the creature's magic pushes at her is akin to a gnat. Just an annoyance that is easily ignored when she increases the pressure, effectively making it impossible for the creature to breathe.

That seems to snap Lillian out of whatever trance she'd been in, because she rips herself away from the others and skids next to Ella. "Please, no! No! You're hurting him!" she says desperately.

"He almost killed you and Peter," Ella replies shortly, caught between glee and fascination as the creature's eyes begin to bulge in pain. "And he's been killing those hikers, eating their hearts-"

"No, it's not him! It's not Emet! Please!"

Ella looks at Lillian sharply.

The creature has a name - Emet - and Lillian Hale is crying for him. She's also wearing that silver necklace now, the delicate filigree cloistered around a gorgeous blue sapphire that rests in the hollow of Lillian's pale throat. The girl pleading with her is nothing at all like the collected and confident one that Ella has seen in the past and it moves something coldly embittered within Ella's chest.

Especially when she realizes what the change in Lillian's lifeline means. Royal purple twining with midnight blue, meeting and melding at the middle, can only mean one thing - soulmates. Lillian Hale's soulmate is this creature.

It's enough to convince Ella to pull back on her magic - just enough that the creature can breath. Just enough that Lillian can race forward and wilt against Emet. She doesn't let him move, however. "Explain," she tersely demands.

"He's a kelpie." Lillian is quick to his defense, never once releasing her hold on the immobile _kelpie_. "I was drawn to his song, to his necklace and - it's only for me, the other half of his soul. He can't sing for anyone else. Nobody else would be able to wear this," Lillian says tearfully, fingers fluttering against silver metal. "This is all just some big misunderstanding. I _know_ Emet, I know his _true_ name. He would never hurt anyone."

"He tried to kill someone today," Anthony reminds her. He comes to stand behind Ella's shoulder, a shadow of barely-bound energy, and casts of flinty eye toward Vera, who has stepped closer to the kelpie from the other side, peering at him with a glaze-eyed curiosity.

It's fucking creepy, but nobody seems to be paying Vera any more mind.

"Not kill," claims the kelpie. "Simply incapacitate. My kind are playful by nature-"

Ella's magic surges forward again, cutting the kelpie off as she narrows her eyes at it. "Yeah? Well, I'm a bit aggressive by nature. How's that for fun?"

Seemingly emboldened by Lillian's return to his side, the Emet's lips turn up, impressed and impish, even as he struggles to draw in air or even move his jaw enough to speak. "Extraordinary. It's been centuries since I last saw a Fay."

Ella stands resolute, unmoving beneath the kelpie's dark, almost playful gaze.

Anthony tenses at her back, taut like a bow-string.

Peter has finished coughing up water and voices his confusion with a rough voice, even as Alice helps him stand up. "I don't get it. What's a Fay?

"A descendant of Morgana le Fay, of course," Emet answers. Then he catches Ella's glower and grins. " _Oh_. Oh, you didn't tell your companions, did you?"

"It wasn't relevant," she says darkly. Because _no_. This isn't how she wanted to deal with _that_ little bit of herself. Ella has been specifically _avoiding_ thinking about it for all this time for a reason - because it's too big and too much and there's too many other things that she needs to prioritize. Like the ley lines and her magic and the magician's glass and _Alice_ and now the kelpie, who is casually revealing her secret between alternating looks of affection at Lillian.

Ella hasn't even told _Carlisle_ about the hag's revelation about Ella's ancestry.

There hasn't been a good time.

And this _definitely_ isn't the right time.

"If you're not the one killing the hikers, then who is?" Ella demands, slowly drawing back on her magic.

Emet's expression darkens, grows sad, and now that he is able to, he wraps his arms securely around Lillian - taking comfort in her presence. "All creatures have cousins of a sort," he answers in a low largo. "Mine own cousin has been causing problems for me for centuries. He has….killed each incarnation of my Rose's soul. I will not allow him to take her again."

"So it's another kelpie?" Ella asks impatiently, finally releasing the oppression of her magic, causing the forest to shudder.

Emet opens his mouth to reply, but Peter's hacking cough cuts him off. "No, no," Peter says after he clears his throat, pushing sodden hair off his forehead. "Kelpies have a bad wrap, you know? They're, you know, mostly harmless unless you're a fish. But if we're talking about a water-based shapeshifter who is also a cousin of a kelpie and also happens to be really good at shunting blame onto innocent bystanders, then we're looking for an each-uisge."

"The boy-spark is right," Emet confirms grimly. "And now that I have thwarted his plans to take my Rose from me, he will be thrice as vicious."

It takes a moment for that to sink it, but once it does, Ella's head drops forward tiredly. "Fucking great," she grouses. "Just what we need. Really, I can't wait to tell the council about this."

"But more importantly," Alice chimes in with a quiver in her voice. "If the kelpie's cousin is an each-uisge and if _my_ cousin is a - a nixie, whatever that is - then…"

 _Cousins play two by two on the shore._

 _And on the shore one by one the cousins slay_.

 _Only one cousin swims to reach the day._

"Then the killing isn't over," Anthony finishes gravely.

 _And someone here isn't going to survive._ Nobody says it, but anyone who'd heard Alice's poem must be thinking the same thing.

Ella catches the gimlet stare of her almost-not-really-sister and for the first time, she thinks, _I hope it isn't Alice._

* * *

 **A/N: Like I'm really going to kill the best character _now!_ Big kudos to anyone who guessed correctly on our creatures - for the Emet the Kelpie and for Vera the Nixie. Now, if you're at all familiar with the mythos of kelpies, each-uisge, and nixies, then you'll see exactly where I decided to tweak the folklore for my purposes. The romanticism of the kelpie _does_ come from one folktale in particular, but I messed with that, too. And again we see a theme of soulmates here that's possibly very important in future arcs.**

 **God I love writing this thing.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	79. part 5: 24: in the wake

**twenty four**

 **in the wake**

* * *

The next few days are hectic and stressful and all around very bad for Ella. She spends a lot of time practicing those breathing exercises - in for eight beats, out for four beats - and attempting to keep a tight lid on the short fuse of her temper. And for the first time in a while, she wishes that it were okay to go find oblivion or something, but she can't.

Because she doesn't need to relapse. Because she promised Carlisle that she wouldn't. Because it didn't solve anything the first time. Because it isn't good for _her_ , mentally, to be in the guilty aftermath of a bender. Because she doesn't have the magician's glass to keep her magic in-check anymore and so she simply cannot afford to let her emotions loose.

(There are new marks on her skin, hidden beneath the sleeves of her trusty fringe jacket and long cotton sleeves, little half-moon indents - some deeper than others, some tacky with dried blood and stuck to fabric - from her nails digging _deep deep deep_ into her arms as she desperately tries to hold herself together. As she holds her emotions and her magic, hoarding everything to herself with single-minded intensity. And it isn't _good_ \- she knows that - she knows that it's self-mutilation, self-harm - but it's the only thing that keeps her head on straight. The lances of pain as she digs blunt nails into herself is just enough to bring her back from emotional brink.)

(She'll feel guilty - revolted - by it later. But later isn't now.)

It is fatiguing keeping a close monitor on what she's feeling, knowing that if she expresses anything but a tight-lipped, clip-toned expression of steady peevishness, then it is entirely possible that her magic will blow up the world around her. Literally, knowing her luck.

And so she does what she knows she has to - what she's _supposed_ to do - and hopes that if she acts like a rational human being for long enough, she'll actually become one.

She makes sure Peter is returned to his dorm, hale and healthy.

("Really, I'm fine," Peter says when she walks him right up to his building. His assurance isn't very convincing because he's still coughing every few minutes and even though she cast a drying charm on him, he still looks like he was dragged through a murky lake. Which he was.

Ella goes to tell him just that, but then Riley is stomping out of Prospect Hall with mussed honey-hued hair and snapping cognac eyes, pale with a taut jaw. "You absolute _moron_ ," he shouts at Peter, not slowing for a second as he pulls Peter into what must be the most singularly angry hug Ella has ever seen.

"Riley-"

"What were you thinking, you idiot?" Riley continues berating, pulling back sharply to gesticulate in an oddly Peter-like way. "Look at you! Did it not occur to you at any time that you're human and therefore exceptionally killable? Did it? _Well?_ "

Peter gapes, then stutters, "I-I didn't think you would care - I mean, obviously you care, but this is, like, _caring_ -"

"Oh, I swear on Lin Manuel Miranda!" Riley grouses, reaching out to snag Peter by his sweatshirt and drag him into the dorm building without a second glance at Ella. As he is carted away, Peter throws a lost look over his shoulder, looking altogether overwhelmed as Riley continues bitching, "If I get a stress breakout, I'll kill you myself!"

Ella shakes her head as the door slams behind them, and then exhales heavily, feeling very tired.)

She makes sure Lillian is safe with Emet and takes the opportunity to grill the kelpie at the same time.

("You're telling me that this each-uisge thing is, what? Like, eating hearts just for the fuck of it? He's a picky eater, or something?" she asks sardonically once Peter had kindly pointed out how strange it was that an each-uisge should _only_ eat the heart of its victims, rather than _all_ of the innards.

Emet, who stands a good few inches taller than Anthony, stares at her with very little reservation, apparently already over her trying to kill him earlier. "My cousin is rather sadistic. Eating solely the hearts is a message to me."

"Because of your tragic, true-love, soul-reincarnation story?" Ella pushes a hand through her hair, frustration mounting. "Is it really so important that you had your other half? So important that you were willing to let other people die by some asshole's vendetta just so you can be happy?"

Emet looks profoundly sad for Ella and from where she is hanging like a limpet on Emet's side, Lillian does, too. "All creatures have souls," he answers plainly. "And all creatures deserve love."

Ella rolls her eyes. "Whatever. Did you at least _consider_ killing your cousin yourself?"

"I cannot."

"You can't?"

"Shapeshifters of the same species have a very difficult time killing each other," Emet says.

"You're kidding." Ella glances at Anthony, but he only looks as serious as usual, and that clues her in that her incredulity, while completely called for, is also out of place. "You're not kidding. That's - okay, so you're telling me that a waterhorse can't kill a waterhorse and that a werewolf can't kill a werewolf and so on?"

Anthony's scarred brow raises. "We can kill each other, but it takes effort. Werewolves, at least, have a hierarchy to balance this - alphas can easily kill any beta wolf."

"Noted," Ella says. And then to Emet, "And I guess your water magic makes the job twice as hard."

Emet dips his head. "Indeed. Much of our strength is derived from the water."

"Super inconvenient," she mutters. "How am I supposed to kill this thing?"

The kelpie's dark blue eyes turn speculative. "How long can you hold your breath?"

Anthony snarls.

And Ella starts seeing possibilities.)

She makes sure Alice is actively trying to solve the Vera-problem.

("I'm taking her to my mom," Alice says, a pinch between her brows as she branches away from Peter, Anthony, and Ella once they have cleared the Charmstone forest. Vera is easily led, still a bit vacant in the eyes.

Ella's shaking hands - a result of coming down from the adrenaline rush and the after-effects of using so much magic in such a short period of time - are stuffed into her pockets. "Will Esme even know what to do? I mean, nobody knew Vera's a nixie…"

Alice firms her chin, a shadow of Carlisle's optimistic worldview in her expression. "Mom's the best option we have. That kelpie made it sound like…"

 _Like Vera is one song away from death._

"Yeah," Ella says. She jerks her chin to the sky, indicating to her familiar flying overhead. "Raven'll go with you, keep an eye on things."

Alice's smile is shaky. "Thanks.")

She makes sure that the town council is made aware of the new development.

(It's a fiasco - everyone is mad or scared for some reason or another and most of that anger is directed toward Ella and to Anthony standing resolutely by her side, both of them staring down the town council unflinchingly. To say that the town council hadn't taken the news of an each-usige somewhere in Beacon Lake's runoffs well is an understatement. The response has been exceptionally poor, as a matter of fact, especially when coupled with Ella and Anthony's temerity to openly defy the way situations like this have been dealt with before. The uproar came not from discovering the kelpie in Beacon Lake, but from the revelation that they knew exactly what Charmstone PD was trying to keep under wraps.

"The _audacity!"_ says Mayor Newton.

"Oh, yeah, we were _so_ audacious to actually _do_ something instead of sit on our asses," Ella sneers. "What were _you_ doing? Golfing? Sweating through another shirt? Screwing your wife?"

"Why, I never!"

"If you haven't noticed, people are dying and our police department is only issuing a curfew. A _curfew_. Like that's going to help," she says harshly. "You can be offended and you can be appalled, but at least you'll be alive if I have anything to say about it."

Aro claps in response to that and even Kate has replaced the disapproval on her face with something thoughtful. It's Elisabeth Masen, however, that speaks up next, directing a disappointed look to her son. "I thought you were prepared for this responsibility."

"I am prepared," he says with flashing golden eyes, unmoved and unflinching. "I'm doing what's _right_ , not what's easy."

Elisabeth makes to respond, but Ella is quick to cut her off. "You said I should have a seat at the table. But _I_ get to decide how I want to sit in that seat - not you or anyone else here."

Elisabeth quiets, contemplative, and so does the rest of the council.

"If you don't want to be involved in getting rid of this thing, if you don't want to step on toes with the CPD, then that's fine," Ella says, standing straighter. "Nobody is asking you to step up. I am asking you to get the hell out of my way, though, or I'll move you myself."

Ella means it, too. So many times, systems put in place to protect her had fucking _failed_ \- and there's no way that she's going to do the same when _she_ is the system.)

And then she sets to making sure that she isn't going to take out half the campus next time Bree turns the tunes up a touch too loud.

This is arguably the most important task on her plate and it sets her teeth on edge that other things have to take priority and that it takes so many days for her to find a place to tackle her magical problem.

Ella goes to Carlisle's house in the middle of the night, rouses him from his bed to drag him out to the ley line she'd selected specifically for this purpose. "Okay, so I _really_ need to make a magician's glass. Like, yesterday," she says.

"Oh." Carlisle yawns, allowing Ella to spell his coat onto him. "Why?"

"Because the kelpie isn't our problem. Turns out he has a bigger, badder cousin who sounds like a real asshole and I can't be second guessing my magic, worrying about hurting the wrong person. So, we're going to go out and make me a foci for the one I just completely destroyed."

Carlisle blinks. "Well, alright."

Ella kneels on the cold, hard ground beneath a new moon and draws out a pentagram from memory, having long-since memorized the steps needed to create her own magician's glass. Carlisle acts as a magical support - someone familiar and who meant something to her and who could pull her back if she got lost or overwhelmed. She represents all of the elements; a feather of Raven's for air, unearthed iron, copper, silver, and gold for earth, a burning sprig of rosemary for fire, a single drop of her own sweat and her own tear for water, and three drops of her blood to represent her spirit. There is a small mirror in the center, which she stares at as she calls forth her magic, digging from the deepest part of herself as her eyes burn bright silver - and then an even brighter platinum as she connects to the ley lines.

A magician's glass is a foci made to reflect the magician - to center the magician - to represent the magician's very _soul_ and by extension their magic. They work best when the magician makes them personally

Ella screams silently when hers is made from the magic of her intent alone, feeling shards of her self being ripped away and then replaced, fitting more snugly than before. It hurts. It's like being gutted and overstuffed. It's like every ache she's ever had in her entire life is given back ten-fold - but she can't make a sound. The magic bolts through her, twisting and tearing for a timeless moment -

Ella collapses forward over the now-empty pentagram, shaking so violently her teeth chatter.

"Ella!" Carlisle sounds so alarmed and then he's bending over her, brushing her hair away from her face, and making calming noises until her shivers calm and she doesn't feel like magic is trying to eat her up from the inside.

The sigils on her arms feel raw and when she looks at them, they are inflamed - almost blistered.

Less important than that, though, is the foci that has appeared on her body.

She is surprised to see _two_ foci, one on each hand; she is less surprised to see that the magician's glass isn't the flat, round piece that had been on her previous one. The magician's glass reflect the soul of the magician and there is nothing about Ella that is _remotely_ whole. The foci on her left hand circles the whole of her forefinger and connects to her thumb, while the foci on her right hand wraps around her middle finger and then links down the back of her hand and finishes around her wrist. The pattern of the metal is oddly reminiscent of the sigils forever scarred on her body, and like the previous foci, the new foci is made of a thousand tiny strands of multiple metals. And interspersed over every circular dip is a shattered shard of the magician's glass - shattered just like her soul.

Even still, she's relieved to have the rings on her fingers, though, like the hot balloon between her lungs has been punctured and she can finally breathe easy. Because Ella has some studying to do.

* * *

 **A/N: Although the format of these kinds of chapters might be odd - so many parenthesis - I, for one, enjoy them. They feel more intimate, I think. Also _super_ useful for transitions! **

**But poor Ella for having a shattered, broken soul. Not in a Voldermort-like way, though. No horcruxes here, people.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	80. part 5: 25: hold your breath

**twenty five**

 **hold your breath**

* * *

Admittedly, Ella hasn't put a ton of thought into what she's doing. Aside from understanding that a little self-sacrifice will give her the upperhand with the each-uisge, she hasn't thought twice about the kelpie's - Emet's - proposal.

She really should have.

"How long can you hold your breath?" he'd asked - right before he proceeded to shove her backward into beacon lake, using water magic to hold her under while she thrashes. Lake water rushes up her nose, choking her, and Ella thoughtlessly opens her mouth, breathing in a lungful of murk.

Magic surges around her and although it isn't a conscious use of any spell, the studying she's been doing is paying off. Ella understands more about the physical properties of water, the construction of molecules and any other science she could wrap her mind around, and with that comprehension comes the ability to manipulate the element with much more ease - even when on the verge of blacking out.

Her magic forces Emet's away and she rises to the top of the lake, sputtering and coughing water out of her lungs, leveling an irate glare at Emet's towering form standing on the shore. She isn't the only one glowering at the kelpie; Anthony had somehow found out that Ella was set to meet with Emet today (obviously, Bree is a tattle-tale) and had insisted on coming along and now he is outright growling and flashing eyes at the unmoored kelpie.

"You cannot hold your breath for very long at all," Emet decides.

"No shit," Ella coughs.

"You must rectify this."

"You're one sadistic bastard. Has anyone ever told you that?" Ella asks. But even as she does, she knows that Emet is right. Everything Peter has shown her about each-uisge indicates that they murderous things _really_ enjoy playing with their food and Ella needs to be prepared. It's rapidly becoming clear that she isn't on an even playing field, powerful magic of hers aside. She's lived an entire life in a massive metropolis with exactly no opportunities to learn how to swim; Ella can float, taking advantage of natural human buoyancy, but she isn't comfortable in the water at all.

And it shows.

At least she isn't stupid enough to go looking for the damn each-uisge. That is, even if she could _find_ it, which she can't, because neither she nor Raven have picked up squat with the ley lines aside from a general sense of malaise that is spreading through the Charmstone forest. Of course, there isn't any guarantee that she wouldn't go running off the second she sensed the murdery waterhorse - she knows she's impulsive enough that it's a very real possibility.

It'll get her killed. She's been so focused on learning about water magic - learning how the element works so she can manipulated it easier - that she's completely overlooked the physical side of things. To her own detriment, apparently, because Emet does not seem to care that Ella struggles.

He just asks again how long she can hold her breath - and then Ella is under.

Over and over again.

Each time she comes up for air - either released by Emet or by finding the wherewithal to cast magic while drowning - Anthony is snarling, pacing, being held back by the immobile force of the kelpie.

If she weren't doing her best impersonation of a drowning victim on _Baywatch_ , Ella would probably have _feelings_ about the way Anthony is behaving. As it is, she pushes sodden hair away from her forehead, her eyes catching the shattered glass decorating her new foci, and dredges up her resolve to try again.

How long can she hold her breath?

As long as she has to - as long as it takes.

* * *

 **A/N: You wouldn't _believe_ my week so far. God. Anyway - a little update, but don't talk about the length because it is what it is and all these long chapters have been the oddballs in the equation.**

 **Also, oblivious Ella is _best_.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	81. part 5: 26: valentine's day

**twenty six**

 **valentine's day**

* * *

In retrospect, it should have been obvious that the whole shitfest would go down on Valentine's Day; the clues were all there in the eating of hearts to send messages, targeting slim blonde hikers, and a sadistic vendetta against true love. Any kind of psychopath worth their salt, supernatural or not, has a yen for symbolism.

What better symbol than the day of celebrating love itself?

The should have known.

As it is, Valentine's Day finds Peter dragging Ella around Charmstone, where some kind of yearly festival is being held that features - God help her - grown men and women dressed as baby, diaper-assed Cupid wielding "love arrows" that stick to their targets. A pretty big part of Ella is honestly kind of creeped out by how many all-town celebrations Charmstone throws - and being friends with Peter, it seems like she can't escape _participation_. Doesn't mean she has to be happy about it, or anything, though. Ella may or may not incinerate the one heart-shaped arrow that attaches itself to her, much to Peter's horror.

"You just…you…"

"Why are you even bothering with this greeting-card holiday with me, anyway?" she wonders, looking pointedly to where Riley and Bree are loitering near Sam's Diner not a half block away. "Like, I'm definitely not your type. Missing a pretty important piece of equipment, I think-"

" _Shhh!"_ Peter lowers his voice, looking around with wide eyes, verging on appearing downright scandalized by his own sexuality. "Supernatural hearing, remember."

"Uh huh." Sue her if she sounds skeptical.

He squints at her. "I feel like you aren't putting that much effort into keeping my secret."

Ella's brows rise. "Is it really that much of a secret? I mean, you must know that werewolf noses are pretty sensitive."

Peter blanches, as if the thought really hadn't occurred to him at all. "You- no…you aren't serious."

"Bree's probably smelt it on you already, not to mention anyone with eyes can tell-"

"I'm going to _die_ ," Peter moans dramatically.

Any other time, Ella might of gleefully twisted the knife a bit deeper - _someone_ had to prod Peter in the right direction and she's impatient in general - but there is a shiver in the air that stalls the breath in her lungs. And then three things happen -

A scream rips through the air from deep in the forest, the kind of supernaturally loud scream that screeches and echoes and is so high-pitched it could only belong to one person -

Raven's voice trembles down the familiar bond from where she has been patrolling the skies, a warning of _I have seen our prey_ -

And a single ley line is plucked, a dark tremor that feels distinctly sticky, tinged with a dreadfully familiar darkness that doesn't seem inclined to be going away any time soon.

Ella does not even hesitate.

(Later, she'll look back and wonder when her instincts changed from _self-preservation at all costs_ to so _stupidly protective will run into danger_ , because it's a cringe-worthy development.)

Locking onto the wards surrounding the town proper, she twists them, locking the barrier so that nothing can get in - and that nobody except herself and those she chooses can get out. Less than a second after securing the immediate area, her other hand waves a fiery message into the air, sending a warning to _stay put_ to all of the magic-users under her direct protection. And then she is running in the direction of the ley line, determined to beat the each-uisge at its own game.

Peter follows along, but he is soon stopped by the barrier, which he runs into full-tilt, only to be thrown onto his ass. He frowns in confusion when Ella passes unheeded and then realization dawns on his face. "Hey, no! Ella! You have to let me come with you!"

"Can't," she says, but she doesn't elaborate. She doesn't know how to say that it's been too close a call for Peter once before and that she has no intention of letting him have another near-miss. Ella turns to leave, to continue on her hunt, but many of the Scooby Gang all crowd together at the edge of the barrier, each of them pressing against the barrier, which lights up bright red any time they try to pass.

"Let me through," Anthony growls, flashing golden eyes at her around half-shifted fangs and claws.

Ella presses her lips together - but she could use an alpha werewolf, couldn't she?

Anthony passes the barrier, prowling with his shoulders bunched as he makes to follow behind her, but they are stopped again by a chorus of protests. A chorus that, actually, sounds a bit more thin than it otherwise might - like the gang might be missing a few members. Ella does a quick head count and her stomach drops.

"Hey, wait!" Bree says frantically. "Hey, has anyone seen Alice or Vera?"

"And where's Lillian?" Peter adds, shaking Riley's quelling hand from his shoulder.

Even while she's kicking herself for not noticing earlier - or putting together the banshee scream with the banshee she knows best - Ella knows the answer to all of those questions. It takes half a second to confirm where all the lifelines are stretching - back to the ley line in the forest.

"We'll be back," she says shortly.

"And if you fail?" Peter challenges. "What then? You need _help_ with the Loch Ness Bastard-"

Ella's eyes burn bright silver, her show of aggression mimicked by the way Anthony shifts into full-wolf at her back, shredding his clothes in the process. She doesn't spare a second thought to the fissure of confidence that threads through her spine at the notion that she isn't going to be alone - that Anthony will have her back. That she _trusts_ that he'll be there, if for no other reason than to protect his family and his town.

"If we fail, then the wards will fall," she tells them all. "If that happens, be prepared to gut this thing where it stands."

Because if Ella is dead, then so is her magic - and Charmstone will be unprotected.

Failure is very much not an option.

But even as she runs into the forest with Anthony at her side, that damnable poem is running through her head and she knows that all the players are already present -

Cousins play two by two on the shore.

And on the shore one by one the cousins slay.

Only one cousin swims to reach the day

* * *

 **A/N: Hey, lovelies! Been sick - managed to get strep throat, because I'm _talented_ \- so I haven't much felt like writing or doing anything other than sleeping and choking down absurd amounts of hot tea.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	82. part 5: 27: drowning

**twenty seven**

 **drowning**

* * *

There is a stitch in Ella's side as she runs after the loping wolf ahead of her - while she is using her magician's vision to follow lifelines, Anthony is using his nose and he is much quicker than she thought. It's an emergency, so he's not really making any allowances for her human speed, and she can't be mad about that at all because if she could, she'd leave him in the dust, too.

Ella really needs to work on teleportation. It would be so much more convenient.

She knows enough about the geography of the Charmstone forest to know that they aren't heading in the direction of Beacon Lake - they are going more easterly, toward where the lake breaks off into a dozen streams and ponds. They are going further away from the town. It's a relief because even though she knows what this murderous waterhorse is capable of, she doesn't know how capable it could be to an entire town of potential victims. The further, the better.

Ella stumbles to a stop right behind the wolf and takes in the scene that greets her with wide eyes. Vera is shin-deep in the water, dancing and singing at the top of her lungs, and each time Alice ventures closer to persuade Vera back to shore, Vera turns on her cousin with eyes bleeding a deep, soulless black and tries to drag Alice into the water. Lillian is hovering on the shore, soaking wet with a throat bruised bright red and her dress torn, and lunges for Alice each time Vera tries the drowning thing - unless she's looking at the battle taking place not too far away, throwing terrified looks over her shoulder every few moments, that is.

Because the kelpie and the each-uisge are in a violent clash together and from where Ella is standing, it doesn't look like Emet is winning. When he isn't slashing an ancient silver sword overhead, Emet shifts into a dapple-grey horse, rearing forward threateningly and trying to push the each-uisge further from the water. The each-uisge is not as nice looking as the kelpie, thought. Draped in slick black seaweed and dark green kelp, both the human and horse form of the each-uisge aren't pleasing to the eye; sickly pale, gaunt-eyed, with cracked, bloody lips and an arthritic swell to his joints, ribs and spine poking out at sickening angles. The each-uisge doesn't have a sword of his own, but he does seem to relish catching Emet's blade each time it makes a swing for a vulnerable place on his body. The horse form of the monster, which shifts in a watery blur only seconds long, has teeth as sharp as little knives and easily outweighs the kelpie's horse form.

And that isn't even to speak of the water, which is churning violently and throwing off enough heat - from warring magics, maybe - that it boils and steams and positively reeks of sulfur.

Ella has already given Raven instructions. As her familiar, there are certain magics that Raven can do by herself - such as put up a barrier for anyone that needs protecting. Raven is already waiting not three feet in the forest, prepared to spread her wings and shield the survivors until this thing is over, one way or another.

(And no, Ella doesn't really like her chances, here. This thing eats hearts _for fun_ and has clearly already tried to off Lillian at least once today and there is something deranged in the joy it feels from its own pain that feels…a little familiar, honestly. And not in a good way. And then there's Vera alternately trying to drown herself or Alice, singing in tongues that thread and ghost through the chilly air -)

"You get the girls," Ella says to Anthony.

And then she throws herself into the fray, launching a crackle of electric magic through the air to separate Emet from his killing cousin. Her intrusion surprises both waterhorses, and then the each-uisge is throwing his head back and laughing manically.

(Out of the corner of her eye, Ella can see that Anthony has shifted back to buck-naked human and is dragging Lillian into the forest, and then running back for Alice and Vera once Raven has placed the protective ward.)

"Need help, little cousin?" asks the each-uisge.

Emet grimaces, shifting the grip on his sword as water anchors around his ankles. The air around them is heavy, hard to breath let alone stand - even for Ella - and the amount of power wafting off the waterhorses is frankly dumbfounding. "If it will rid the world of you, Jame, then I will take any help that is offered," Emet answers, slashing his sword down.

Ella is quick to roll her wrist, her foci glinting in pretty fractures, to compound Emet's attack with an opposing element to water - fire this time. Jame is able to fend off the sword, but not her fire, and he shrieks in angry pain as her flame licks at his cracked skin. Ella rotates her wrist, thrusting her hand forward and making the yellow-orange fire into a bright blue, burning hotter than before.

(She can still hear Vera singing over the each-uisge's pain. Singing and splashing and still trying to pull Alice into the water with her. Anthony can't get close enough, it seems, and he's grown distracted by the each-uisge's screaming.)

Ella cuts off her spell, giving Emet time to dart forward with another sword attack, and turns to Alice and Vera - pressing her palms together for the barest second, and then separating her hands. Ten feet away, the water around Alice and Vera parts, shoving the girls in opposite directions, and Alice stumbles against Anthony -

"Shit!" Ella screams at the sudden pain crossing her back from upper shoulder to rib. With water magic still in mind, she thoughtlessly reacts, shoving magic at whatever has hurt her and then spinning around to confront it. She is somehow knee-deep in the water, now, and apparently her injury is a case of friendly fire - Emet's sword must have arced back and caught her and now Emet is slumped against a tree off shore, head lolling to the side.

 _Fuck me_ , she groans internally. The one ally strong enough to take down this thing, and she'd gone and knocked him out - not thinking, just reacting to her racing heart and the cold sear of pain from Emet's sword.

And now Jame is grinning at her, too-wide with sharp teeth stained in tacky, rusty red with sinew caught between them.

(At least Alice is out of the water, now, but Vera hasn't stopped singing and Anthony is manhandling Alice further from the shoreline-)

"Oh my, oh _my_ ," sing-songs Jame. And it should be wrong that something this terrible and ugly should sound so attractive, but such is life and such is the magic of an each-uisge. Ella shakes off the urge to relax, her mind still whirring at the danger present all around her. "It's been _ages_ since I've tasted a magician. Wonder if your kind are still as juicy as I remember?"

"You'll never find out, you overgrown seahorse," Ella retorts, spinning electricity in her palms - prepared to meet Jame head-on when he shifts his weight -

Only she hadn't noticed that she's been drawn further into the water, now up to mid-thigh, and that she's losing her advantage. Because mere moments after she speaks, something snakes around her ankles -

And Ella is under.

 _How long can you hold your breath_?

Long enough.

Lungs burning, Ella forces her eyes open under water and tries to see through the murk to find the kelpie. It's too dark, though, even with the electricity fizzing uncomfortably against her skin. She has one advantage, though, and it isn't too dark to spot the shot of red stretching out right in front of her eyes - followed by the fast-moving shadow. Even as the each-uisge, now shifted into horse form, lurches forward, Ella claps her open palms against the sides of the horse's neck, giving her enough time to float backward, away from the snap of serrated teeth.

(Anthony is calling her name - he's abandoned his duty to Alice and Vera - and she knows this in the corner of her mind because she notes that the smoky lifelines belonging to the cousins are much closer than before - they're in the water, too -)

Ella's skin feels like it's burning and her lungs are about to explode.

How long as she been under? A twenty seconds? More?

The each-usige comes at her again and Ella reacts, shoving currents of water, made stronger by her magic, at the horse to buy her enough time to at least try to swim upward - to catch a breath. She's almost at the top when her ankle is snagged again and she bares her teeth at the beast-turned-man before clenching her fists and twisting her wrists in a single harsh move. Obligingly, the magic works and water soon turns into shards of ice volleying at the each-uisge. Even as the last of her oxygen bubbles to the surface, Ella doesn't let up on the ice, striking at the each-uisge again and again -

Ella bobs to the surface, gasping in desperate breaths. She hasn't killed it, yet, and she can't see Vera or Alice anywhere. Anthony is ankle-deep in the water, though, and she casts magic at him - shoving him violently away from the water, not unlike she had Emet -

"Ella!" he yells with golden eyes -

Ella is yanked under again.

But it isn't by the each-uisge.

It's Vera, her blonde hair splayed in a pretty halo around her head, her black eyes leeching the color from her face. Vera's grip on Ella loosens and Vera smiles, still humming that dreadfully creepy tune even as she brings her finger up to rest in front of her mouth - a silent instruction to _stay quiet_. Ella isn't really interested in the whole _be calm as you drown_ thing, but she can't help but follow Vera's pointing finger when the nixie indicates something to Ella's left -

It's Alice, sinking peacefully in the water, one hand reaching to shore and her eyes closed. Ella doesn't think twice about rounding up more water magic and causing a surge that will hopefully catapult Alice to the shore and to safety -

Vera is smiling, like in victory - and then the next moment, air foams from her mouth in a water-logged gasp -

The each-uisge has sunk its teeth into Vera's side, ripping a chunk of the girl away and going for seconds with a kind of voracious hunger -

Vera's black eyes go flat in second, body slumping strangely beneath the water, her blood dyeing the water all around a horrible, sickening, rich red. If Ella could, she would gag - but she can't. And even though Vera was creepy and even though she's definitely dead now, Ella unleashes magic around her in a glow of silver rage.

The each-uisge wasn't supposed to kill anyone again.

Ella wasn't supposed to _let_ it kill again.

Ella screams beneath the water, unleashing a borage of magic that doesn't have any spell - just pure emotion with the last remains of her air supply, the sigils on her arms burning as she draws from the ley lines. Magic like this - emotional, intent-based magic - doesn't have a single element to it. It's magic in its purest, most undiluted form, and it crackles with electricity and burns with fire and ice and whips like wind and packs pressure like earth -

And Ella gives this magic everything she has, until there is a gaping crater in the bottom of this pond -

Until black seeps around her vision and her eyes drift shut and her body sinks toward the void she has created, the void where she has sent the each-uisge and the remains of Vera's body -

Until very, very far in the distance - almost in another life - she can hear Alice screaming again -

Piercing the veil while Ella is drowning.

* * *

 **A/N: Boy, this was a hard one to write _for reasons_. So, did you guess the poem right? Did you predict the ending?**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	83. part 5: 28: breathe, damn it

**twenty eight**

 **breathe, damn it**

* * *

"Breathe!"

Someone is shouting, loud enough that it touches on where Ella has found refuge in the deepest, darkest corner of her own mind.

" _Breathe_ , damn it!" The voice growls, hinging on an profound desperation.

The first thing she feels is a heavy, painful weight on her chest, like an anvil is sitting happily right on her sternum and crushing her ribs into her lungs. Then there is the cold, biting and prickling sharply against her skin. Then there is the sense that her body is moving, somehow - a sort of _thumping_ from her chest and outward even though she is limp.

And then there is the pressure against her mouth, followed by the very strange sensation of air forcing its way down her throat and into her breast - batting against water resting there - bubbling -

Ella jerks to the side, rolling over a rock jabbing right into her hip, and coughing foul-tasting water out of her mouth and trying to take in ragged breaths at the same time. The world is spinning, she's so lightheaded. Mind cloudy. She can barely see for the lake film over her eyes and the watering of her tear ducts as her body tries to find some homeostasis in breathing.

It's hard. She coughs for a long time before she is able to sit up on her elbow, weakly holding her weight up. Her entire body is trembling like mad and there is a burning pain on her arms - the sigils are blistered, again.

"Oh, thank _God!_ "

Ella coughs again, this time more dry, and turns her sore neck - honestly, it's like whiplash, as if she's been thrown around like a ragdoll - to peer at the people cloistered around her.

First and foremost is Anthony, kneeling at her side, partially hunched over her; his hands are warm where they support her shoulders, and she belatedly realizes he must have been rubbing her back as she coughed. She blinks at him, then - Anthony is soaking wet, bare skin slicked in the same nasty murk coating her, the curls on his head flattened and dripping. His breath is coming quick, eyes edging more green than gold. His mouth is red.

 _He was breathing for me_ , she thinks as her lips tingle pleasantly from the repeated pressure of his CPR. And it must have been that, judging by how awfully sore her chest is. With werewolf strength, he could have cracked her ribs very easily; she hopes he didn't, that would suck.

It takes a startling amount of effort to drag her eyes away from him. She doesn't know what to say - how to tell him _thanks for saving my life_ \- and so she says nothing. Not yet.

Next is Alice, who has her hands held over her mouth, repeatedly thanking God. She's crying, which Ella finds surprising, because she has the sense that Alice is crying _for Ella_. "I didn't know who I screamed for," Alice whispers. Her gimlet eyes flick back to the sulfuric pond. "But…Vera is…"

"Yeah," Ella confirms. She sounds horrible, like she's gargled nails, or something.

"Oh, my God," Lillian cries, turning her face into Emet's face. _"Vera_."

The kelpie is grim-faced, wrapping his arms around his soulmate securely - but there's something about the way he stands that screams _relief_. Ella remembers that he'd said nixies only sing one song, only predict one death, and Ella wonders if maybe all this time Vera hadn't been sensing her own demise.

Seems like Alice certainly had been.

The group of four stay on the shore of that little pond for a long while - absorbing the utter fucking shock of what has just happened. Charmstone is safe again and the each-uisge has been obliterated, but the cost is higher than anyone expected. For her part, Ella sits and blinks at her sodden clothing, shivering and feeling altogether numb. Her hair is caught around her and it reminds her of the inky seaweed on the each-uisge.

She doesn't like it.

She doesn't like any of it - because somehow she'd fails even as she succeeds.

Even as she survives.

Again.

* * *

 **A/N: For Mina, because you did the _Now Kiss meme_ at me and I'm petty like that. Much love, girl!**

 **Now that the longest frickin' arc so far is done, we only wait for the interlude. Or interludes? I haven't decided yet.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	84. part 5: interlude

**interlude**

* * *

Her scent surrounds him - crisp, sweet citrus and the air right before a storm strikes - and Anthony leans more into the intensity of her body heat where she is perched on his lap while he strokes his callused palm down the curve of her spine. Part of him marvels at the contrast between his skin and hers, the rich bronze hot to the touch and flushing beneath his attention. She sighs, dropping her head back to reveal the gentle slope her neck, and his lips travel there, mouthing along her pulse where her heart is pounding so wildly - just for him.

 _"_ Anthony…"

The wolf that is so much a part of his soul snarls in anticipation. He nudges his nose against the corner of her jaw, drags his stubble over her cheek, raises his head to meet the striking paleness of her eyes beneath the flutter of sooty lashes, which fall to her cheeks. He cups her cheeks, tender. "Why won't you look at me?"

The lovely scent tinges with bitterness, the rind of an orange all sweet-sour against his tongue. "You know why."

He does.

He kisses her, anyway - pressing against her lush lips eagerly, even desperately. She doesn't taste the way he remembers, like the coffee he brought her the last time they were together. No. The taste of her lips are overly salty and sulfuric and suddenly, her hair is dripping on his skin, staining them both with mud and algae and -

Anthony pulls back, frowning deeply, and the girl in his arms does the same. He is stunned to see her, now, to see how fast she has changed - deathly pale, dark water leaking from the mouth he has just kissed, eyes bloodshot and glassy.

She pushes her small hand through his riotous hair, this time meet his eyes grimly. "I am not the girl you knew before and you are not the boy I knew then. But we are close, Tony. So close."

"Bella-"

"Be patient," she whispers right before her fades like mist, intangible and leaving his arms empty.

Leaving _him_ empty.

He's so _empty_ without her -

She's never coming back -

He might as well be made of mist, too -

Anthony wakes up with a wrench in his chest and her name on his lips. The wolf inside is howling in misery and all Anthony can do is sit on the edge of his bed, bare chest cold with sweat, head cradled in his hands as he balances elbows on knees. He closes his eyes, brow furrowing, and tries to hold onto the wonderfully terrible dream. It's better than remembering dragging her out of that pond, of being unable to hear her heart beat, of the acidic taste of her lips as he breathed for her until she could breath for herself.

He's so angry at her, right now.

No, not _Ella_. Not this Ella, at least, because this Ella doesn't know that she's dragging his heart through a meat grinder. Anthony isn't even sure this Ella realizes that her scent sweetens when he's around, or that her body leans into his space, or that its killing him not to reach out - not to touch or speak or do anything that might change what happened before -

He's mad at _his_ Ella - his _Bella_ , the one who came and left and told him everything and nothing all at the same time. The one who promised that two years is nothing in the grand scheme of things. The one who told him that she had to make mistakes and survive trials and find herself before she could find him - and the one who neglected to mention how much _finding herself_ would involve _almost dying_.

Almost dying in _his_ arms, on _his_ watch, and while he could almost certainly do nothing about it. More than once, even.

Anthony feels the shift creeping along his skin and tramps it down. He can't go out and howl his grief right now. It's too soon after the fact. And it's because he knows he wouldn't be howling his grief for the best friend that has just died - and Vera deserves that, she does, because she was good and kind and kept he and Lillian from going at each other's throats and now she's _gone_.

His girl didn't tell him that, either. Another thing to be mad at her about, even if he understands why she didn't say anything.

It's all so much more difficult than he anticipated - than he ever dreamed.

And now this dream, with the phantom of her touch and the possibility of _more_ and the temptation of being so close to what he lost two years ago. Knowing that this is her magic reaching out to him from God knows where or when. Knowing she is trying to keep him tethered, even before their souls are anchored together. Knowing that his patience is running thin and that he can't just sit back and watch her struggle. Not like this.

And he wonders, not for the first time, if he would _really_ change all that much if he just did what his instincts are screaming at him to do -

But it's too much to risk, really, and so he restrains himself. It's more than just his heart at stake. There are lives in the balance. He can't fuck anything up.

He can't.

* * *

 **A/N: Writing Anthony is always such a challenge. He just wants to give _everything_ away, adorable prat. Although, this should calm everyone to know that there are romantic feelings at play - Ella is, of course, delightfully obtuse as she deals with her shit and our Tony is angsting the hell out of the entire situation. Love them. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	85. part 6: 1: snip, snip

**PART SIX**

* * *

 **one**

 **snip, snip**

* * *

One moment she is sinking deep in putrid water, breathless with the weight of the lake pressing all around her and two bright blue eyes crinkling in a forever-frozen smile staring at her through the murk - and the next, Ella is sitting up in bed, her hair plastered to her sweaty face and back, inhaling greedily. She's not choking on water. She's not drowning. She has to remind herself of this several times before the racing of her heart calms enough that she notices Raven's talons pricking through her ratty sweatshirt.

"I'm fine," she says to her familiar, flicking damp hair away from her face.

Raven's onyx eyes glint. "It has been a month since you defeated the each-uisge and evaded Death, and yet still you have these terrors. I do not think you are fine."

"Yeah, well, forgive me if defying death leaves a few new mental scars," Ella retorts tiredly. She huffs at the weight of hair on the nape of her neck and shimmies off her bed, Raven tottering on the railing of the frame.

"Fair enough," returns the familiar. "Do not forget to make a notation in your journal for the half-sphynx."

Ella rolls her eyes. Over the past month, Raven has apparently taken it upon herself to look after Ella's well-being in a way that is _seriously_ bordering on helicopter parenting; she's almost certain her familiar reports back to Carlisle and that they must talk about her, but other than the occasional pomegranate seed, Ella has no way of actually _proving_ this. She does, however, flip open the little memopad she keeps on her desk - also known as the _dream journal_ Kebi recommended Ella start keeping - and writes down, _had another fucking nightmare where I was drowning._

And then she goes to the kitchen. She casts a muffling spell on her feet so that she doesn't have to make the effort to _actually_ be quiet and move as thoughtfully as possible so as to not upset the light sleepers in the dorm.

Ella is less than surprised to see that Alice is already haunting the kitchen, hunched over a once-steaming mug of tea that Carlisle has recommended to his biological daughter. Alice stares at the table, a bit blankly, and Ella again realizes that she's taking her cousin's death a lot harder than anyone else. Because she's a banshee? Maybe.

Vera's funeral - memorial - had been a somber affair about three weeks back. There hadn't been a body thanks to Ella and the each-uisge, so there hadn't been anything for her family to bury. That didn't stop the O'Briens from buying a headstone, though, or hosting a wake in Vera's honor. Alice had been subdued then, while Lillian spent a lot of time crying into Emet or Anthony's shoulders, deep in mourning for her best friend.

But Lillian is better, now. And so is Anthony, from what Ella can suss out the rare times they have crossed each other's paths now that the threat to Charmstone has diminished (and now that the town council is being cagey about meetings after she and Anthony had went and played with fire without anyone's go-ahead, basically shitting on the idea of a _chain of command_ ).

Alice, though? Not so much.

Not that anyone could tell, really. During the day, Alice held it all together very well, never for a moment appearing out of place or not pristine and proper as always. She kept Red Lily Hall running like a tight ship, almost unnaturally organized with an eye to detail and regulations. But at night, Alice just kind of - deflates.

Ella can relate, almost.

She felt the same for a while - after Jane. And after the hag, although Ella is _definitely_ handing this most recent near-death experience with more grace than before, probably because she's been visiting Kebi when she needs to and actually calling Carlisle and just generally doing everything _better_ than before. Nightmares notwithstanding, of course.

Still - Ella knows what it's like when something that traumatic happens. It's like…the world breaks apart and puts itself together again, but nothing fits together quite the same as before. A cracked egg shell or one of those impossible jigsaw puzzles missing the center piece.

She and Alice are in the same boat with the numbness and the lingering thoughts and it _sucks_ but it's not as horrible - sharing something like this - as Ella thought it might be. She and Alice have changed.

Ella snaps, silently casting a spell to warm Alice's tea, and then waves her fingers at the kitchen to get herself a cup, too. The tea floats across the room and settles on the tiny table in the breakfast nook moments after Ella sits down across from Alice, nudging her adoptive-sister's foot in the process.

Gimlet green eyes meet pale grey; they both sip the tea in silence.

"Thank you," Alice murmurs.

"Don't mention it."

When Ella is left with nothing in her cup except for tea leaves, she shifts in her seat - and once again, the length and weight of her hair feels like _too much_. So freaking annoying. She's had enough. On impulse, Ella snags a pair of scissors stuffed into a cubby placed beneath the kitchen window - someone's craft corner, judging by the hot glue gun and sequins - and winds her hair around her wrist.

Her movement draws Alice's attention and Alice's brow knits in confusion. "What are you doing?"

Pulling the length of her hair taut, Ella hacks blindly at the hair just below the nape of her neck, cutting eight inches of hair off her head like it's nothing. The hair falls to the floor and Ella shakes her head out in relief, the strain on her neck gone, and a blessedly cool touch of air against her sweaty skin.

Alice gapes. "Oh, my God. You're insane."

"What, you don't think it suits me?"

"It's like - it's like that one movie, with Johnny Depp and he has scissors for hands, only it's all _uneven_ and - and it's _all over the kitchen_ , Ella! The _clean_ kitchen!"

Ella lazily whirls her hand, silently cleaning up the mess she's made. "Edward Scissorhands."

"What?" Alice snaps.

"The movie with Johnny Depp where he has scissors for hands. It's Edward Scissorhands," Ella says, messing with the chopped ends of her hair. "Hey. Will you come with me to the salon in the morning?"

Alice stares for a long moment and then she says, "Yes. Good idea."

And it is a good idea - for both of them. While Ella's hair is fixed by a horrified beautician, who manages to layer her espresso-dark locks into a short bob that angles just beneath her chin in careless waves, Alice also gets her sleek pixie-cut trimmed. And then they get their nails done, manicures and pedicures that smell of vanilla bean, with Ella favoring a dark olive and Alice a baby pink. And then they split a banana nut muffin on their way back to campus.

Neither of them mention the glaringly obvious _sibling bonding_ that is happening, but that's okay. They don't need to. The important part is that as the windy mid-March weather eases over Charmstone, so too do their shared nightmares.

The midnight tea drinking is something for Alice and Ella, now - not a thing made of grief and regret.

* * *

 **A/N: So, major time jump here. If you missed it, we ended the last arc in February and the new arc is in March. A whole month, plus a funeral, gone. It's good. We're moving forward.**

 **Has anyone else just impulsively cut their hair like that? I have with bangs, but I don't think I could for _all_ of my hair. Ella is so hardcore.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	86. part 6: 2: be gone, glitterdouche

**two**

 **be gone, glitterdouche**

* * *

"I just don't get it," Peter says as he trots alongside Ella's brisk pace away from the Arts building on campus. He met her just as she finished a studio hour with a nude troll acting as the live model, bearing blessedly black coffee and questions about troll anatomy that she refused to answer. Taking that in stride, Peter had then switched to his favorite topic these days: Ella's magic.

She sips her coffee in silence, waiting for the rest of his thoughts to burst forth, as they inevitably do.

She doesn't have to wait for long.

"Like, okay, you can pull all kinds of nifty tricks out of the proverbial hat, right? Wards and super useful charms and enchanting objects and a crap load of legit telekinesis like it's nothing. Last week, you made your entire dorm fire proof because Bree left the girly hair iron thing on and just yesterday, you saved me a trip to the campus medic by healing what I'm pretty sure was a broken toe," he muses animatedly, then shakes his head. "But you can't teleport? I mean, what is that all about?"

Ella shrugs. Some time after her intensive studying to prepare for the February fiasco, she had a striking epiphany: if she ever wants to use all this magic at her disposal, she's going to have to make serious effort. The problem, of course, is that Ella is not studious or even very smart. At best, she's a solid C student and at worst, it's a miracle she graduated high school at all, GED or not. Book smarts aren't her thing - street smarts are. Ella is aware of her strengths and her weaknesses. And so when she'd come to this realization, it was quickly followed by another: she cannot learn alone.

And Carlisle's magic books full of mind-numbing theory and Viridity's stunningly expansive, dusty collection are all well and good, but Ella's magic doesn't work so well with spells. Sure, she can _do_ spells, but it's kind of like wearing a pair of jeans that are a size too small - it's just not comfortable and in the long run, it takes more effort to check that her magic isn't overwhelming the spell than to actually cast the damn thing. Which is something she already knew from learning all about water-based magic. The foundation is important. Once she has a basic understanding of the way a spell works and the way the laws of physics operate within the spell, then she can _mimic_ the spell on intent alone without actually incanting, or anything.

It's just that there are a lot of fundamentals that Ella needs to learn and with all that basic science is a whole host of arcane knowledge that she also has to understand and it's enough that she'd recruited Peter for the project. He's just nerdy enough that he actually got _excited_ at the prospect of being a glorified tutor.

Between the two of them, Ella did learn enough about anatomy that when he dropped a massive tome on his foot in the library yesterday, it hadn't taken much magical effort on Ella's part to simply _will_ his toe into not being broken anymore. Peter didn't even have to take off his shoe.

Teleportation, on the other hand, isn't turning out to be so easy.

"Look, I don't know what to say," she says. "I read about the crazy hair guy-"

"Albert Einstein."

"- and the robot voice guy-"

"Stephen Hawking."

"- and I sat through Jasper's crazy theory about the _beam me up, Scotty_ thing-"

" _Star Trek_ teleporters," Peter corrects, finally sounding aggrieved. "Really, it's much cooler than he made it sound."

Ella ignores his interjections. "And it's all still just gibberish to me. It would probably be easier if we could at least find a spell about it, but there's nothing concrete. There aren't even runes or sigils about instant relocation."

"I stand by the idea of just straight-up making a portal, like Blink, you know?"

"And your suggestion is duly noted," she replies dryly. "Or it would have been if you hadn't also told me that those portals have a habit of leaving missing pieces behind if the destination is unclear."

Peter winces. "To be fair, that's also a problem in Harry Potter. Remember when Ron got spilched?"

Ella delivers a droll stare around another swig of coffee. "Doesn't change the fact that I would need a spell."

Peter deflates. "There's still three other libraries we could try," he says, and then goes on to plan out the best time to actually go through all those books. By his estimation, they'll still be searching all the way through summer, or longer if another supernatural situation crops up.

It's kind of aggravating, really. The one thing Ella thinks would be the most useful and she can't figure out how it's done. Or if it's ever even _been_ done. And if it has been done and there is a spell to study and try to emulate, there is no guarantee that the book will be in Charmstone. It seems like an impossible task.

Just as the wind whips through the busy courtyard and they are passing by a particularly swarmed tree, a tall, pale figure eases between a mass of bodies and calls out in a cultured voice. "Ella!"

She stops, turning to look at Aro with an air of expectation. "Yeah?"

Aro smiles down at her. "I've been looking for you-"

Something seems to click in Peter's mind, because he's suddenly scowling at Aro and drawing himself up to his full height. "Hey, _hey_. You're that rave-tastic fae, aren't you?"

"I am Aro. It's wonderful to know my parties have reached the ears of the common folk," he drawls.

Peter flushes angrily, wagging his finger. "Yeah, dude, they're legendary and not in a good way. Look, if you're trying to push more of your two-bit leafy LSD, you can take your business elsewhere. Be gone, glitterdouche, because Ella doesn't do that crap anymore."

Aro raises an unimpressed brow at Peter, then turns away from him completely to address Ella again. "As entertaining as this feisty little spark of potential is, I'm afraid I haven't sought you out for pleasure, little witch."

"Then what's this about?" she asks. Not out of curiosity, but out of unease. There's no mistake about it that Aro is trying to cause trouble, she just doesn't know who the trouble is for - not yet. Freaking mischievous faeries.

Aro dips his head, dropping his voice. "Because you've displeased them with your rebellious ways, the town council has been keeping this from you and that wolf of yours - but I feel it's prudent to clue you in."

"Uh-huh."

Aro's icy eyes glitter when he smiles widely. "Did you know, little witch, that a certain bookstore still remains in our lovely town? A bookstore that nobody can open."

Ella's stomach drops. "The _hag's_ bookstore? You're kidding."

"I am not, unfortunately," Aro says, suddenly serious. "I am the one most recently tasked with getting inside, but not even the essence of my people is enough to combat the darkness protruding from that place. Positively vile, I assure you. And the council is being oh-so annoying about keeping it all hushed…"

She shakes her head in disbelief. "And they've probably annoyed you about something else, right? I mean, why else would you be telling me this?"

Aro smirks. "My contention with a certain ghoul is neither here nor there. But that bookstore must be dealt with eventually and I honestly believe you have the best chance of getting inside."

"I'll think about it," she says.

"See to it that you do," he replies.

Aro melts back into the hoard of pretty people around the tree, who welcome him back with glee, and Ella turns the new issue over in her mind a few times. It isn't until she is several paces away that Peter's silence dawns on her and she looks to her friend, who appears pretty miffed by the exchange.

And then Ella snorts. "God, I can't believe you actually called a two hundred year old faerie _glitterdouche_."

"Well, he is," Peter grumbles. And then he does a double take, bright blue eyes bulging. "Wait, he's how old? He looks twenty!"

Ella warms the remains of her coffee and says, "That's how the fae age. _Very_ slowly."

"Oh, man. Nothing in life is fair."

Ella thinks of the underhanded tactics of the town council. "You have no idea."

* * *

 **A/N: I am _particularly_ proud of glitterdouche for an insult. On another note, we're moving forward into another plot. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	87. part 6: 3: because (i don't know)

**three**

 **because (i don't know)**

* * *

Ella's plan to stop by _Bokhandel_ to see what Aro and the town council are fussing over is halted in its tracks. Not by a sense of caution, or anything, but by a phone call from a very frazzled Peter. Moments after she catches his orange lifeline flaring a sudden, very alarmed bright yellow, her phone vibrates in her back pocket. Ella stops in her tracks right at the campus gates, drops her head back to stare at the blue sky, and sighs before answering.

"What is it Peter? If it's about losing one of your comic books again, I told you after last time that you need to get some sort of organizational system together - old milk cartons, or something - because I'm not doing _another_ finding spell for you. Not even if it is the coveted first issue of Batman."

"There's a _situation_ at my dorm - oh, holy God! Jesus Christ, I wish I were religious - " The rest of Peter's babbling is garbled up by the strange background noise, which is mostly a lot of people yelling and what _seem_ to be animal sounds of some sort.

Ella pulls the phone away from her ear, peers at it suspiciously, and then turns on her heel to start in the direction of Peter's dorm building. Peter wouldn't call for anything less than an emergency because he's a serial texter and likes talking on the phone even less than Ella. And as she keeps a close monitor on his lifeline, listening to the tinny sound of his voice making various exclamations over the line, Ella can admit that she's mildly concerned.

By the time she reaches Prospect Hall and has to shoulder her way through the crowd of on-lookers, Ella has reached a state of resignation. "I'm here," she says into the phone.

"Oh, thank God," he says. Some ways away, Peter flails around as he spins, searching for her, and wilting in relief when he spots her moseying forward. He doesn't flinch at the scowl on her face or her disgruntled air. When she is close enough, he just starts gesturing to the dorm wildly.

Prospect Hall is a sight to see. The building itself is shivering and giving off a strange aura; there are windows broken and lights sputtering; the boys in the dorm are all freaking out on the front lawn; and there is an odd amount of animals milling around. Ella's eyes follow the shape of a calico cat, sensing something _off_ about it, and then her stomach suddenly rolls.

"What the hell is going on?" she demands. "Is that cat - That cat is _dead_. And _walking around_. Peter."

"Okay, before the vein in your forehead really starts to do that thing it does when you're pissed - oh, too late - oops - uh, okay. Okay, look, it wasn't _me_ ," he says defensively. "I wouldn't do this! I'm a reasonable guy, okay, and when my pet dies, I do what everyone else does and bury the thing under some nice tree, maybe with a grave marker of some sort and a short service with a few nice words about the -"

" _Peter_ , get to the point."

"Right!" Peter nods vigorously. "Look, the first thing you should know is that Seth had a really hard week. There was this biology test and then Phineas suddenly croaked and everyone was tripping over his little corpse on the stairs for _hours_ before anyone realized that the cat was, like…yeah. So."

Ella looks at the calico cat still wandering around - well, limping around with cloudy white eyes and a rasping _meow_ that is making one boy with dark hair and skin flinch periodically. The house shakes again and Ella closes her eyes. "So, you're telling me that all of this is because of a dead cat."

"It's like all those episodes of Buffy where some asshat summons a demon to the fraternity, only this guy is accidentally summoning all his dead cats instead of just the one and they're scaring the shit out of me, okay. And you need to do something about it because I don't think the portal thing in the dorm is stable."

"Me?" Ella asks with some skepticism.

"Yes, please! I'll give you whatever you want!" Peter says desperately. "Or Seth will! Or the dorm - we can pool our resources and get you something _really, really_ nice, just do something about all of this!"

Ella resists the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose like Carlisle might. "Fine," she bites out. "Call Anthony."

Peter fumbles for his phone. "Uh, yeah. Okay. Wait, why?"

She slants him a look. "Because I need him," she says blandly. She wrinkles her nose at all the dead pets converging on the dorm. "You really think I'm cleaning up this mess alone? No. Call Anthony. Now."

Peter does.

And while he's doing that, Ella does her best to isolate the backlash. She puts up two wards, one to keep bystanders back and another to contain Prospect Hall, which seems to be quivering more often. There is some sort of booming happening inside that doesn't inspire much confidence for the integrity of the structure. But she isn't about to go inside without first knowing what exactly this _Seth_ thought he was doing.

So Ella marches up to the Seth and asks point-blank with a searing stare, "What did you _do_?"

"W-what?" Seth stutters.

Seth isn't much taller than she is and his wide, dark eyes make him look impossibly young even though they're probably the same age. Of course, this does very little to soften the irritation that is bleeding through her body language. " _You_ ," she says forcibly. "You caused this, right? What was it? No, let me guess. You found out that you had a spark of potential a while ago, right? Parents probably told you or someone kindly pointed it out, and you figured it was cool but that you didn't need the spark. What was the point? You're fine being completely human. How am I doing so far?"

"Pretty much on target," Seth stammers, leaning away form her and the palpable weight of her magic leaking around her in the wards and from her very body. She'd put money on the fact that her eyes have steadily grown more silver with each passing second as the magic within her builds, and she can't really blame Seth for being a little bit intimidated by it.

The smile she gives him is not particularly nice. "Great. Everything was just fine, right, until one day it wasn't? Because you're cat died. One of many, apparently. And you were sad for a while, until you remembered that spark of potential you have. And then you thought of a perfect solution. Magic. It fixes everything, right? All you need is the right ritual and Fluffy will be right back in your arms."

"Th-that was the i-idea, yes."

"Well, _Seth_ , turns out you were fucking _wrong._ So, I'm going to ask you again. What did you _do_?" she bites out.

Seth fumbles with his explanation. Ella could care less about _why_ he's done this twisted ritual - because _my cat died_ doesn't seem like a good enough reason, that's why - and she _is_ admittedly curious about where the hell he even found a book with a ritual that dark in it, because necromancy is sketchy territory. But Seth is too green to know how hugely he's fucked up - until it literally bit him in the ass, that is. The whole thing is just one big headache, as far as Ella is concerned.

The good news, if it can even be called that, is that the whole thing seems to be centered in Seth's room - information he finally gets around to revealing once she's kindly motivated him with just a flicker of an electric buzz. The better news is that by Peter's breathless headcount, everyone is out of the dorm, which at least cuts down on the unexpected complications.

Ella is physically pushing Peter and Seth behind her second ward by the time Anthony shows up with Bree in tow. She absolutely _does not_ feel a swoop low in her belly at the sight of his windswept arrival, or if she does, she puts it down to the dark magic churning out of Prospect Hall. "Oh good," she says, flicking her fingers to allow only Anthony passage through the ward. "You're here. Perfect timing."

His scarred brow lifts. "Why have I been summoned?"

Ella tilts her head to the dorm in front of them, shrugging a shoulder with her lips pursed together. "Someone is summoning things they shouldn't," she tells him, settling for the simplest answer.

"Okay," Anthony returns mildly. "Such as?"

She glances at him fleetingly only to find that he's staring at her with this indecipherable look on his face. Like - well, Ella doesn't even know. Fondly, or something. Maybe he just likes her haircut. It doesn't matter.

"Dead pets," she declares dryly.

"What."

She smirks at the lack of inflection in his voice, because the situation definitely warrants it. Charmstone is such a ridiculous town. "Only, they're like demons? Like, evil dead pets, intent on scratching and biting and, I don't know, chewing through old sneakers."

"That explains the smell," he mutters.

"There's a smell?"

"Yes."

"Gross."

He scoffs mirthlessly, then puts Bree in charge of rounding up any undead pets that wander out of the house, a task which Bree accepts with a grimace and a withering glare to a very much cowed Seth. Peter is expressing interest in tagging along, but Ella doesn't entertain the thought for a moment; Peter needs to stay _Peter_ and for that, he needs to be _human_. He definitely doesn't need anything more than an academic interest in magic. He doesn't need to be like fucking Seth, mucking about in shit he has no business with in the first place.

Anthony and Ella cautiously ease their way around the scattering of half-decomposed gerbils and rabbits and few really disgusting, flopping goldfish at their feet. It isn't until they are on the second floor landing, where there are larger undead pets - including a freaking _snake_ \- that Anthony pops the question.

"So, why did you have Peter call me over?" At her blank expression, he elaborates with a twitch of his broad shoulders. "This isn't exactly my area of expertise. I'm a werewolf. Magic gone awry isn't one of my talents in general. This seems like something you could handle by yourself."

"Because…" For second, Ella's mind is alarmingly blank. Why did she want Anthony here? He's right that she probably _doesn't_ need him around because all she's really doing is canceling a spell. And yet, her first instinct had been to wait for him to come around. Ella recovers quickly, though. "Because I don't know exactly what I'm walking into, here, and if there happens to be, like, a German Shepard zombie, it would be easier - for me - to have someone dealing with that while I handle the magical aspects. It didn't have to be you. I would have settled for, I don't know, one of the ghouls on campus. Because of the dead flesh thing."

"Fair enough," he concedes, taking the steps right at her side. "Logical, even."

"Obviously," she says to her back, wondering why she feels like her tongue is too big for her mouth, like she said the wrong thing, or whatever. That self-doubt passes in a quick second, though, because Ella has _nothing_ to be second-guessing herself about. It's just Anthony and there's something more important to focus on, anyway.

Seth's dorm room shows evidence of a boy who is hyperfocused on the goals in his life - mainly, it seems, transferring to an Ivy League college at some point, or else he _really_ just like the Yale logo and has decided that plastering Yale blue over his walls is a good decorating choice. But all that evidence of him being smart and driven is washed out by the actual vortex that has formed in the middle of his floor, all inky black and sucking crap out of the room even as paws of undead critters crawl out between the red pentagram painted onto the carpet. The magic _feels_ icky, there's just no other way to put it. It feels all kinds of wrong and heavy and sticky; it instantly reminds her of the hag's bookstore basement and the way that old crone's magic felt.

Super dark magic will always feel oppressive. Ella hasn't come across any strictly light magic, but she knows from the way her own neutral magic feels that light magic must be all rainbows and fucking butterflies in comparison.

Thankfully, Ella's hypothetical of a zombified giant dog is completely wrong; there are, however, a few featherless parrots in half-flight that dive-bomb for them as soon as they enter the room and Ella gladly leaves fending _those_ off to Anthony. Which he does with probably more of a show of casualness than she thinks is necessary, almost like he's showing off how easy the entire deal is for an _alpha werewolf_.

She rolls her eyes, ducks beneath a pecking moth-eaten finch, and locates the hefty book Seth told her about - one that feels just as _black_ to the touch as she imagined it might. The book is miraculously open to the page where the ritual is, but the damn thing is in Latin. Score one for Seth for being able to translate the thing without a spell, which Ella uses after one frustrated moment of trying to decipher what the hell the words mean. The words on the page glimmer with her magic and she quickly scans the details of the ritual

"Oh, _gross_ ," she breathes.

"What's gross?" Anthony asks, deflecting another undead pet from her back, which she appreciates.

"Seth had to actually pluck wings off of flies for this thing," she says, then winces as she reads further. "No, wait, that wasn't the grossest thing he had to do. That's just wrong."

"I don't want to know," Anthony mutters.

The dorm room shakes then and the vortex on the floor expands another inch - and out pops what used to be a Rottweiler, foaming and snarling and lunging right for Ella. Anthony leaps to the fore, grappling with the zombie dog, and Ella stops wasting time. The longer the vortex is open, the bigger the animals that come out will be, at least according to the spell. Ella really doesn't want to see what the largest old pet Charmstone used to have will be, so she runs her finger down the page, muttering to herself while Anthony dispatches the dog.

Most of the time, undoing a spell is as easy as saying the spell backward. Rituals can be broken by messing with the sigils used or by displacing one of the sacrificial ingredients or, like the hag's ritual, by simply overpowering the spells. Wards can be plowed through or dismantled. Magic isn't always _permanent_ ; what is done can always be undone.

This is one of those times, though, where Ella looks at the incantation that was used in this necromancy spell and knows right off the bat that she's _never_ going to be able to say anything that long _backward_. No way. She's pretty sure she wouldn't be able to even say it normally, not even with Carlisle coaching her.

 _Overpowering it is_ , she decides. Ella edges to the other side of the room, careful to stay outside of the pentagram, and then just kind of _pours_ her magic at the vortex. Silver magic crackles between her fingers, hitting the vortex with an ear-popping crash, and the shattered glass on the foci on her hands glimmers brightly. Ella is forced back an inch by the impact of the magics and the vortex stutters, almost like a scratched record.

She furrows her brow, hitting the black hole again with her magic - using her indomitable _will_ to force it to close. The vortex fights back, of course, because Seth was stupid enough to not put any kind of limits on the damn thing and it's gone and found a mind of its own. Dark magic is like that.

Ella's magic is stronger.

She doesn't even have to tap into the ley lines to close it - after another surge or two of her magic, the vortex winks out of existence, leaving the room scattered with bits of dead-again pets and a smell of rotting that will probably never fully come out of the carpet.

Ella is breathing a bit heavier and takes a moment to reel her magic back in. She's learning how her magic really _feels_ , all the different ways it manifests on her person, and the slight sharpness in her vision that happens when her irises glow silver fades right as her magic cedes back beneath her skin with a shiver of gooseflesh. She heaves a heavy sigh, hands on her hips, and cocks a brow to Anthony. "That was easy."

Anthony's lip curls at the tacky blood beneath his human-dull nails. "Regular cake walk," he agrees sedately. "How did this happen, anyway?"

Ella snaps the old book closed, but not before catching a familiar black poppy stamped onto the leather binding - a stamp that she's seen only once. "Some idiot bought a book off that old hag," she answers grimly. She hefts the book into her arm, fighting the urge to either cringe away from the darkness radiating off the book or throw the damn thing through Seth's window and hope it hits him in the head. She does neither. She does, however, look at Anthony expectantly. "Did you know the town council is trying to get into the creepy old bookstore?"

Anthony tilts his head in interest. "No. No I didn't."

"Huh. Imagine that."

Anthony makes a humming noise, following her out of the room. As they leave Prospect Hall, there are more and more pet corpses littered on the floor of the dorm, something which she is sure Seth's dorm mates are going to be thrilled about. Speaking of Seth, he is right up in her space like an overexcited puppy the moment she dismantles the wards around the dorm and announces the building safe again.

"Who are you?" Seth asks in awe, seemingly oblivious to the way Anthony is glowering at him.

She rounds on Seth with a roll of her eyes. "Ella Cullen," she says shortly.

"Ella, thank you so much-"

She waves her hand to shut him up, shifting the book to one arm. "No, I don't want your gratitude. That's not how this works. You're new to the magic thing, right? You probably thought that you could just do one spell and get what you wanted and go back to how things were before. Guess what, Seth? You were wrong _again_. Now that you've ignited that spark inside of you, you're going to have to feed it. You clearly have a capacity for magic and it's changed you _forever_."

Seth shakes his head. "No, no i-it hasn't! I'm still-"

Ella scoffs. "You're not really entitled to denial right now. These are the facts and you need to learn how to live with them. And you also need to figure out just how much magic you can do - are you going to be a druid or do you have enough of a spark to be a warlock? That's something that we get to learn _together_."

"Oh, uh…."

Her smile is sharp. "But Seth, no matter what, you're one of _mine_ now. And my people don't do stupid shit like this. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Seth nods.

"Fantastic. Meet me at the gates tomorrow morning. We have a lot of work to do."

 _And another thing to add to my already long to-do list._

* * *

 **A/N: This chapter wasn't supposed to be this long, but it was. Such is life. Shit happens. Right, Ella? Like, I don't know, not understanding that you might be attracted to someone! Whoops!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	88. part 6: 4: poetic justice

**four**

 **poetic justice**

* * *

After extensive testing conducted with Carlisle's knowledgeable assistance and much to Ella's dread, it turns out that Seth has a capacity to be a warlock. Not all that surprising, considering how well his stupid necromantic ritual went, but still not what Ella was hoping for.

With no other options - because Seth's new magic will fester in him if he doesn't learn how to use it - she hand delivers Seth to his new magic tutor, Benji, who is still more than a little intimidated by Ella. She _strongly_ encourages Benji to steer Seth in the direction of lighter magics while also making it perfectly clear that from now on, all of Seth's fuck ups are now Benji's. Neither want to piss her off; she thinks they'll be on good behavior _and_ make fast progress. What more can she ask?

Except to _gently_ inquire as to when Seth went shopping at _Bokhandel_ , of course, because that book she found in his room is of the utmost importance. If Seth happens to stammer a bit more than usual beneath her steely gaze - well, then maybe that will teach the little idiot to not muck about in things he shouldn't in the future. Hopefully.

Seth's book was purchased from the hag in October. Based on some of the spells in the book, she suspects the original purpose for buying it had more to do with the sacrificial blood-for-energy tradeoff spell that has been dog-eared and highlighted. Seth wanted to be able to study more and thought magic was the best way to go about it, apparently. The Night of Undead Pets thing was just a really unfortunate sideshow.

"Never again," she tells him sternly, then tilts her lips at Benji from where she stands in his open doorway. "You take good care of him, alright?"

Seth's throat bobs as he nods obediently; Benji actually utters a _yes, ma'am_.

Out on the street beneath Benji's apartment building, Ella rolls her eyes. Is she really that scary? She tries to consider it objectively for a moment and concludes that, yes, between her moments of aggression and razor-focused determination and the outright power she has sparking at her fingertips, she can be very scary. How wise of other people to finally realize that she is a force to be reckoned with - or at the very least, not fucked with.

All Ella's life, she's been either dependent on someone or learning to be independent from someone or trying to wiggle out from beneath the thumb of whatever it is that was trying to control her. It's different, now. She's a year older, less than a month away from being eighteen, and so much _shit_ has happened but _she_ is better. Stronger. Wiser.

Still learning, still a work in progress, but not the total disaster like before.

Maybe a bit meaner, though.

Because Ella is trying to keep under the radar of the ever-watchful eyes of the Charmstone citizens, she doesn't call Raven down from her perch as she meanders through the streets branching off of Main Street and the town square. As Peter and Bree frequently point out, having a huge raven on her shoulder and actually talking to it is not exactly inconspicuous - so she has Raven hop building to building as Ella slowly weaves from one side of town to the other.

It works in her favor that Benji's apartment is actually _in_ Charmstone, right above the pizza joint he owns called _Pizzarre_ , because after dealing with Seth, she has a legitimate reason to be in town without tipping anyone off to the second reason she left campus. For a moment, she entertains the notion to try out the invisibility spell she and Peter have been looking into, but she rules it out - one thing at a time.

Resisting the impulse is hard, though she's sure Kebi would be proud. It's part of her therapy to recognize when her actions or behaviors are edging toward impulsivity. Like, it isn't as if Ella is completely adverse to planning, but a lot of the time, trusting her instincts and going off the cuff is what has kept her alive and it's a hard habit to break.

Baby steps, and all that.

It takes Ella ten minutes of casually walking through all the fruit-named streets in Charmstone to finally reach the boarded-up exterior of _Bokhandel_. She resists the urge to retreat once the dark magic rolling off the place brushes over her awareness; instead, she tilts her head and blinks her magician's vision into focus.

Most of the time, the magic that she can see, the lifelines of people, are faint etches overlaying the rest of the world, but if she really focuses on it, Ella can see a whole wealth of information that is honestly almost overwhelming. She doesn't understand a lot of it. Even with practice, seeing auras is dizzying and trying to decipher the patterns in lifelines is sometimes a head-scratcher because there are very few hard and fast rules. Seeing magic, on the other hand, is easier in comparison. Like, when she erects a ward, she can see the silvery applique of her own magical signature; the runes tied to the leylines on campus and in the town square that keep Charmstone under lock and key were created with an array of runes that she can actually see the outline of, even manipulate by just reaching out and adjusting them by hand.

The same is true for _Bokhandel_. The hag's dark purple, almost black, magical signature is plastered all over the warding around the bookstore, thick slashes of runes lining the doorway and windows. Solid work. Expert, even.

"She knew what she was doing," Ella mutters, crouching down to study the magic more closely, even as her stomach clenches painfully being so close to the remnants of magic that actually _killed_ her.

Raven seems to have taken a perch on a nearby streetlight. "Do you see the weakness?"

Ella purses her lips. It isn't hard to see what Raven is talking about, but it doesn't mean she's happy about it. Maybe others wouldn't be able to sense the fault line or, like Aro, have the right magic required to break down the ward, but Ella does. She traces her finger over the rune cluster, the one that the hag didn't connect properly to the rest of the wards. "Here, right?"

Raven caws her affirmation.

Ella stands up and takes a step back - and bumps right into an oddly familiar chest. Something swoops behind her ribs when she pulls back on her magician's vision and catches sight of the golden lifeline that belongs to Anthony Masen. If she hadn't been so busy with looking at the hag's wards, she would have notice Anthony long before he could actually loom up behind her.

She turns just slightly, catching sight of the wild toffee curls peaking beneath a knit black beanie. Anthony is staring down at her with bemusement. "You stepped on my foot," he says.

"Maybe I wouldn't step on your foot if you learned to respect personal boundaries, Lurch," she points out a bit sharper than she intends. Her cheeks feel warm for some reason. When Anthony makes no effort to step back, Ella does so, putting some distance between them. He's so damn _tall_ that it's actually a little bit irritating.

"Maybe if you weren't getting up to trouble, you'd notice that I was here _before_ you stepped on my foot," he returns.

"I'm not getting into trouble," she argues. "This isn't _trouble_."

"It looks like trouble."

"Well, it isn't."

Anthony still appears skeptical, which is annoying. "So, you're telling me that stopping by the very store the town council is trying to keep us both away from and spending a solid five minutes studying the front door isn't trouble?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Very believable." Anthony jerks his chin at the bookstore. "Don't mind me. Go ahead and do what you were going to do."

Ella bristles. "I don't need your _permission_."

"Never said you did," he tells her seriously and the weird thing about it is that _he sounds sincere_.

Ella doesn't know what to do with that and so she does nothing. She turns back toward _Bokhandel_ , blinks her magician's vision back into focus, and breaks apart the runic wards that have been keeping everyone else out. It's about as much effort as it takes to ball up a piece of paper. Ella feels exactly zero remorse for the amount of glee that shoots through her once she's done what the council has been trying to all winter with barely more than a flick of her fingers. Victory tastes so very sweet, especially victory that has been obtained beneath the noses of people trying to keep her away from the issue.

Ella takes a deep breath, then strides forward into the bookstore. She shoots a look to Anthony over her shoulder when he doesn't make to follow, raising her brows in expectation. "Well?"

The green in his eyes glitters once she has cast blue fire to light the entirety of the decrepit, dusty store after he follows her inside. The store looks exactly like it had back when she and Peter had been inside back at the beginning of autumn, only this time there is no creepy woman behind the counter. Good riddance.

She still shivers, though, because the magic is so oppressive and dark - even weak and residual as it is after the hag's demise. "Wonder what they want with this place?"

Anthony's eyes rove over the partially collapsed bookshelves. "Probably want to use it again. Charmstone's small enough that every bit of commerce helps."

Ella pauses from where she is tracing a finger down the dusty spine of a book stamped with an outline of a black poppy flower. An idea occurs to her, one that is devious but also inspiring - because even though the entire store gives her the creeps, there is something drawing her magic to this place. And checking her impulsivity or not, Ella has come to recognize that there are things about magic that are far greater than her own will.

Ella turns to Anthony with her hands on her hips. "That's a _great_ point," she tells him. "Every bit of commerce helps the town, right?"

His expression slips into one of disbelief. "You're not serious."

"You know, Peter did have an idea a while ago and I'll be able to get a loan or something soon," she muses, more to herself than to him. "How does _The Magic Shop_ sound to you?"

Anthony has no response aside from an incredulous noise in the back of his throat; Ella pays him little mind, though, because her decision has already been made. She's definitely going to be stepping on all kinds of toes and she _definitely_ doesn't care. After all, isn't it kind of like poetic justice that the bookstore should belong to the last person the hag crossed?

* * *

 **A/N: Yes, that is a gratuitous Buffy reference. It's how I _roll_ and I just can't get enough. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	89. part 6: 5: tick tock

**five**

 **tick tock**

* * *

 _The Magic Shop_ is a good idea. It is - brilliant because she'll always have a job that nobody can fire her from, because she's planning on buying all the hag's crap along with the bookstore, because she'll have a base of operations and a place to crash in the little apartment over the store, and so many other reasons. It's a _great_ idea.

Just. It isn't quite feasible at the moment. Not really. And time is very much of the essence, even if she _did_ put up her own wards that she knows nobody is going to be able to take down without her help. The town council is a bit of a wild card and she's trusting them all less and less as time goes on - which, probably not for the best.

It turns out there are _obstacles_ that Ella hadn't initially realized when she came up with the idea.

Even though it's _plausible_ and everything, it's not as _easy_ as just getting a loan the second she turns eighteen. Ella looks into it and spends a few days frowning over the idea of building credit and how long that's going to take before she caves, hunts down Peter, and makes him call the only business major she knows.

("You want me to what?"

"Don't be slow, Peter."

"I'm not being _slow_! You just surprised me, is all. Like. I thought you didn't like the idea of selling enchanted objects," he points out with a furrow between his brow.

"I don't like the idea. Magic isn't a commodity," she says, like it's a reminder because it is, because there's something a little weird about selling her magic, like it's just one step away from selling _herself_. And she didn't get by living on the streets at fifteen by being stupid enough to take money wherever and however she could get it; she didn't sell herself then and she doesn't relish the idea of doing so, now. Needs must, though, and she tells herself that it's _not_ the _same thing_ , even if it kind of feels like it is. "But I like the idea of the town council getting their hands on the bookstore even less, so call Liam and get him over here so we can plan out how this business venture is going to go."

"Just when I thought you couldn't be any more savage," he muses, fishing out his phone before pausing and slanting a considering look in her direction. "Hey, can I be an investor?"

She raises a brow. "You mean, can you put up money to help buy the place before the town seizes the property? Yes. Do I look like I'm made of money?"

"No, but you do look like you wouldn't have any problems robbing a bank," he grins.

"If I had to."

" _So badass_.")

After Peter ropes him in, Liam is extremely helpful - almost as helpful as he is optimistic, which is certainly saying something. He proposes the idea of getting someone to _co-sign_ her loan, someone who does have an established credit history and a good reputation and who she trusts. Apparently, getting things co-signed in the adult world is just about as good as magic.

But there are other things, too. Things that Liam brings up because he's been studying this crap for the last four years and he knows what he's talking about. Things like taxes - and can she even tax magic? - and employees and benefits for those employees. Things like business plans that stretch five, ten, fifteen years into the future. Things like what kind of products is she selling, will she be consulting on things, will she be running the day-to-day end of business.

Things that Ella genuinely hadn't even considered. Because she's an artist and a crappy student and the closest she'd ever come to holding a steady job had been at the Student Center and she'd been fired from that about four months in - so, really, Ella has no idea what she's doing.

(And then there is the urge that she has to fight everyday - knowing that there are things in that store that she needs to look at, things that need to be destroyed for how dark they are, or kept for how useful they are. But she can't go back, not yet, because she can't be seen. She can't tip her hand and let anyone _else_ know what she's up to. It would ruin the surprise.)

She does know, however, that she's stumbled into a political thing. A Sicilian thing. Knows that she has to play her cards _just right_ because for all that actual power gives her a voice in this town, gives her a coveted position, she's not dumb enough to think that her place in the town council is permanent. She's already on thin ice; buying the bookstore might be just the thing to get her booted.

Or it could be a divine move, of sorts - like, just the thing she needs to prove that she isn't a _child_ , that the town council shouldn't treat her as a _child_ like they have been. Ella hasn't ever been handled with kid gloves and she's finding that she doesn't really like it.

(And when the town council does do the March meeting, Ella spends that time trying to figure out who would be on her side, or at the very least, less bothered by her maneuvering. Aro is a sure thing, because he clearly likes and respects her; Kate she thinks is iffy about her position enough that she'd bend under pressure, especially if Alice were recruited; but everyone else is a bit more tricky.

Elisabeth Masen serves her family first, pack second, and town third. She's maybe a bit too maternal to see things as clearly as they need to be seen - not at all as pragmatic as Ella first assumed. Elisabeth would probably protest on principle.

The troll and goblin representatives are probably the most neutral in the whole bunch, given that most of their time is spend pissing each other off in yet another territorial dispute that frankly never really goes anywhere. Black is in the same neutral boat, too, but mostly because he only shows up half the time and spends whole meetings saying absolutely nothing. She doesn't know what to make of it and can't predict which way he'd go if her second defiance of the town council went belly-up.

The ghoulish representative, Stefan, on the other hand is a hardliner, immobile like stone. Holds a grudge against the fae, too, which might not work in Ella's favor if Aro's support is too overt. Especially because Stefan and Aro are locked in some sort of mitigation between star-crossed lovers; one of Aro's fae has been banished back home after being caught with a ghoul, engaging in some sort of act that Ella is really better off knowing nothing about. Point is that the ghoul is making noise about his girlfriend disappearing on him - and going through some kind of withdrawal - and it's made for new tension between the creatures.

Which actually kind of explains why Aro even told her about the bookstore in the first place - to meddle in Stefan's own plans for the space. And Ella's walked right into his manipulation, even if she is taking it for her own, now.)

It's enough that the rest of March passes by in a blink, making it six weeks since the last death in Charmstone - and apparently the end of some cosmic countdown timer.

* * *

 **A/N: Reading between the parenthesis, not the lines! Or both! Do both.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	90. part 6: 6: news broke today

**six**

 **news broke today**

* * *

Ella wakes up and thinks, somewhat inanely, _I'm eighteen_.

It seems like something that should be a bigger deal than it actually is. Eighteen is a momentous occasion, isn't it? She's _eighteen_ ; she can vote, she can fight for her country, she can sign contracts. She's _eighteen_ and she's her own person. Finally.

Growing up, Ella felt the way most foster kids feel - like eighteen is the golden number, the one that means freedom and independence and finally having control over what the fuck is happening in her own life. Eighteen meant _choice_. But now that it's here, her eighteenth birthday feels like the most arbitrary thing in the world, especially considering everything that's happened to her over the last year, and the year before that, and the year before that, and so on.

The realization is kind of a bummer, actually. Like if people finally got to Mars and they really did find aliens, but instead of being little and green like ET, the aliens looked like humans. Cool, but also a let down.

Ella lays in bed for a while, languishing in her thoughts, relishing in a night free of dreams where she is drowning. Lazy, for all that Ella is ever lazy. Everything is quiet in the dorm; it's early enough that even if she hadn't soundproofed her room with a ward, the only thing that she would probably be able to hear are showers running and the occasional clanging of pots into the sink down in the kitchen.

She lazes and her thoughts wander down an aching, familiar path as they always do when her birthday comes around. Her parents. Who were they? Her mother is dead, she knows that now, but what of her father? Which of her parents was a descendent of Morgan le Fay? Did they _know_? About her? About themselves? Is it possible that her biological father is out there, somewhere?

It's numbing acceptance that soothes her - she will probably never know and that is okay. Really.

Kind of.

It doesn't stop her from searching her reflection as she readies for the day - wondering at the shape of her eyes as she traces them in dark liner, coating her lashes with inky mascara, and thinking _my mother's eyes?_ Slicking her lips in a fearless, bold red and baring her teeth in a semblance of a smile - _my father's smile_? Ruffling her espresso-dark hair, catching the golden highlights on her bronze skin beneath the harsh bathroom lighting - _who did this come from_? Ella has never had the luxury of catching echoes of other people in her reflection. She has always looked like herself and at the same time, when she's studying the contours of her bone structure and the fey-like balance of her features and the slightness of her frame, she feels like she's looking at a stranger. A Frankenstein monster, where all the pieces are cobbled together from somewhere else but she doesn't know where they come from.

Ella lifts her chin, staring down the light grey-blue-green and the flecks of magic-spark silver of her eyes, and adjusts the collar of her leather jacket - and she tries very hard not to feel like she's putting on some sort of armor.

(Because she is.)

(Because of all days, her birthday is her least favorite; this is the day where she flounders and rages and goes off the handle at the slightest provocation; and this year, she doesn't want to _be_ that way.)

(So when she leaves the bathroom in a confident stride with her shoulders thrown back, she shoves down all of her uncertainty and locks everything up behind the zipper of that vintage jacket - refusing to be anything less than what life has forged her to be. A fighter. A survivor. A magician. She is not a lost, scared, little orphan. She is _not_.)

Ella reaches the kitchen, spots the mess left in the sink from someone's early breakfast (a goblin, by the looks of it just based on sheer mass), and snaps out a cleaning spell. As the kitchen sets itself to sparkling rights, Ella hunts down a mug of coffee and tears into a package of bite-size blueberry muffins. The single class she has doesn't start until right after noon, but there is… _something_ in the air.

Might be spring come early. Might be something else, though, and Ella is in the habit of hedging her bet. There is a tingle of awareness that has sent a shiver over her skin, quickly followed by the pressing need to be prepared.

The magician's glass foci wrapped around her hands are cloudy.

Something is not right.

Just as Ella is about to give into the urge to stalk around campus in search for whatever it is that is pinging that little alarm bell in the back of her head, Bree breezes into the kitchen. The werewolf's hair is flattened to the side of her head, streaked with teal dye, and based on the pillow creases on her face, it's clear that she's just woken up. Bree's lack of filter isn't reliant on her amount of wakefulness, though, so she is quick to whistle after she runs her eyes over Ella's black-clad form. "Damn, girl," she says appreciatively. "Whose ass are you going to kick?"

Ella twists her lips between sips of coffee, leaning back against the counter. "Yours, if you want. Volunteering?"

"Sweet Christmas, no I am _not_ volunteering." Bree hip-checks the refrigerator door closed once she digs out cinnamon raisin bread, and then goes about smearing chunky peanut butter over the cold bread, taking a moment to gleefully and disgustingly lick the spoon. She folds the bread in half and shoves it into her mouth. "So, like, what's the special occasion? I didn't even know you owned jeans that didn't have paint on them. You know, sometimes, you look like a herd of toddlers took to your closet. It's not a bad thing, like. Just saying, Alice's face does this _thing_ when you get back from the studio and I really, really need to record it. It's an actual twitch, you know? So?"

Ella doesn't bat an eye. "So what?"

Bree swallows hastily, then retrieves another spoon from the drawer and proceeds to dig right into the jar. She lifts a shoulder and asks again, "What's the occasion?"

"It's my birthday," Ella says, somewhat reluctantly.

She can count on one hand the times she's actually celebrated her birthday, or even bothered to. Until Carlisle, it had been just another day, unless she was going to a school at the time that made a big deal about that sort of thing - and even then, she'd had to suffer through her teacher's obligatory Hostest cupcake and a class of children she didn't like reciting the birthday song. All in all, birthdays are just shittier days than most. Even her last birthday with Carlisle didn't miss the jinx.

Bree doesn't know any of this, of course, and so her dramatic choking on the peanut butter in her mouth is more amusing than anything else. "Are you shitting me? _Dude_!" Bree cries loudly, making an abortive move forward, as if to hug Ella, before thinking better of it. She settles on a happy, if not almost-too-wide smile. "Happy Birthday, mi amiga!"

Ella feels very awkward when she utters a _thanks_ , but Bree - as usual - seems oblivious to anyone else's discomfort. Bless her. Because Bree is _Bree_ , she takes it upon herself to seize the opportunity presented by Ella's apparent birthday as an excuse to have a celebration, and does her best imitation of Peter's motormouth as she starts talking about potential party playlists. She's up to wondering at the wisdom of cupcakes over an actual sheetcake when Ella abruptly straightens from her slump against the counter.

A sense of urgency from someone passing through the wards she has placed around Red Lily Hall - no, not just someone.

Anthony.

Ella has ripped the door open by the time he has made it to the porch and even though he is placid and as grim-faced as usual, she can see the tension present in the line of his broad shoulders, in the glittering of green in his eyes, in the way his jaw clenches and unclenches rhythmically.

"Ella," he says, then stops, raking his eyes over her as a shadow passes over his expression.

She ignores that, gripping the door handle too tightly as Bree presses against her back inquisitively. "Who died?" she asks, but it feels like the wrong question. If someone had died, then Alice would have screamed, and since Alice is probably still asleep or in the shower and there has been a decided absence of screaming, it can't be, like, _actual_ death. She shakes her head. "What happened?"

Anthony is the silent type, but he isn't one to beat around the bush and he can be terribly - delightfully - blunt when he wants. "The caretaker at the cemetery is in the hospital."

"No way! Mr. Wickles?" Bree interjects. "Is he okay?"

"Maybe, but that's not what the problem is," Anthony answers, not once looking away from Ella.

Suddenly, that sense of something wrong in the air, that nameless thing that Ella's magic felt, it makes all kinds of sense in that split second. It's intuition that makes her breathe, "That ghoul of Stefan's, the one with the banished fae girlfriend."

Anthony's shoulders roll. "Could be."

"But you aren't certain?"

"I only just got the phone call. It's all hands on deck - the ghoul is missing."

And Ella is a particularly good finder, stumbling into all kinds of trouble all by herself, so of course she's being contacted directly about this. _Now_ the town council needs her particular skill set, and that's fine, if not a little hypocritical. Doesn't matter. It's kind of an emergency. Her magician's vision isn't as good as the enhanced senses of other creatures, but it's a damn sight faster than actually sniffing the ghoul out.

"Let's not waste time gabbing," she mutters, slipping her bag off her shoulder and dropping it near the doorway. "It's a school day, after all."

* * *

 **A/N: Damn, always on birthdays, huh? My birthdays typically sucks - there's always some kind of drama.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	91. part 6: 7: woebegone

**seven**

 **woebegone**

* * *

Nothing is going smoothly or according to plan, which is one hell of an understatement.

The full force of the town council has been unable to find the renegade ghoul and since Mr. Wickles, the cemetery caretaker, is still in a medically induced coma down at the county hospital, none of them can really be sure of when the attack happened, exactly. There's no telling how long ago the ghoul shredded into Mr. Wickles, only that Mr. Wickles was found around six in the morning by a school bus driver when he was half-dead and lame on the street. And since they don't know when the attack happened, they don't know how far the ghoul might have gotten.

It's a catch-22 type of thing in that the ghoul hasn't attacked _again_ , but with more of the town waking up and starting their day, it's also more likely that another attack will happen.

Tracking him isn't made any easier by the apparent truth that the ghoul must have spent hours the night before running around the entirety of the town, spreading a scent trail so confusing that not a single of Elisabeth's best werewolf noses can pin-point which trail is the most recent.

Ella's magical vision is less than helpful, too, because she's good at finding people that she's _met_ before - lifelines that she's familiar with - and so her task isn't so much tracking a single lifeline as it is narrowing down a couple thousand to one by trying very, very hard to filter information. Which is _difficult_ , especially as she hasn't exactly done it before. Ignoring the human lifelines is easy enough because they're dull and don't stand out. It's the other creatures that throw her for a loop. She does just fine in letting the werewolves, trolls, goblins, magic-users, and potentials fall to the wayside - but then it comes time to differentiate between the various types of ghoulish creatures and harbingers and that's when the headache starts.

It doesn't help that every time she gets to this stage, her focus is thrown off by Aro and Stefan bickering in the middle of the empty town square. Her shoulders snap toward her neck when Aro huffily exclaims, "Well then, I guess ghouls aren't as _capable_ as other creatures because _you're_ the only one who can't seem to keep track of his people!"

"As I told you before," Stefan bites out. "This would not have happened had you not sent that fae girl into exile!"

"She was in danger!"

"My people aren't dangerous, for the final time!"

"Look around you, Stefan! We're here because of something _one of yours_ has done to a defenseless human!"

"Because you sent away his faerie!"

" _His_ faerie? He was sustaining himself on her spiritual energy! He was _draining_ her! I couldn't let that stand!"

"From my understanding, it was a mutually beneficial relationship-"

Aro gasps. "I should think not! No fae would be so perverse-"

" _Oh my fucking God_!" Ella finally snaps, spinning on her heel. "Who cares about their kinky, taboo relationship right now? Let's just find him before he has another misguided hankering for living flesh!"

And if Ella never hears another thing about the different types of ghouls - or ghoul-like creatures - there are, then it'll still be too soon. All ghoulish creatures have a thing for flesh, but some get by on animal flesh, some prefer blood, some stalk cemeteries and have deals at morgues for decomposing corpses. But it seems like this renegade ghoul had replaced his morgue meals with straight fae energy, and that's apparently something like a heroine addiction, and now he's going through pretty severe withdrawal, which is replacing the _dead_ flesh thing for the substitute that is most like fae energy thrumming with life.

Mr. Wickles is old and an easy target - and Ella isn't naïve enough to believe that he'll be the only one. The ghoul only got in one good bite, after all.

The town council has done their best to secure Charmstone. Professor Black has been placed in keeping the university safe, the trolls and goblins had each taken one side of the forest, and the werewolves are roaming around in human form as inconspicuously as possible once Mayor Newton had issued a town-wide alert for high windspeeds to keep everyone inside. The fae have been instructed to lay low since the ghoul has had a taste of one of them before, and the others beneath Stefan's order have been relegated to their homes. Kate, clearly recognizing that banshees were as breakable as humans in this case, had issued a town-wide grounding as well. And Ella had sent out magical messages to all of her magic-users with the explicit instruction to _stay inside and aim to kill if necessary_.

Anthony has stayed by her side the entire time, resolute even after his mother tried to persuade him to join the other werewolves in tracking the ghoul's scent. She has the sense that he's betting on Ella's ability to find the ghoul first - and if she could just fucking _concentrate_ , he would probably be right.

"Anything?" he asks when she turns around.

Ella frowns, rubbing at her forehead, and curtly says, "No."

It's all very frustrating.

Everything about this situation is just _fucked_ and pear-shaped and there is something _wrong wrong wrong_. More wrong than usual. Ella is _woebegone_.

(And it's funny, kind of - because she isn't _viewing_ herself as a victim, she genuinely _has_ been a victim. Several times. And it's a trend that doesn't seem to be stopping any time soon. So, is it her personality disorder, is she building it all up in her head? Ella doesn't think so. Not when she has to try so hard to make sure she's surviving and that the people around her are surviving, too.)

(She very much doubts that everyone will come out of this unscathed. Magic and intuition and common sense tells her so.)

She wanders further away from the commotion of Aro and Stefan arguing again and Elisabeth's urgent whispers on her cell phone as she makes contact with various members of her pack. Her eyes fall to the foci on her hands, which are still as cloudy as before, and she bites her tongue, using the brief flare of pain to center her mind again.

"Allow me to assist you," Raven says from the perch she has taken on the back of a bench.

Ella raises a brow. "You can help with this?"

Raven's feathers ruffle, beak clicking sharply. "I am more than just a bird bequeathed by magic. I am your familiar. And while that can mean many different things, such as being a source of information for you or a stabilizing emotional connection or a convenient second set of eyes, you have yet to use me for my true purpose."

Ella turns to face her familiar fully, an ease rippling down her spine. "Which is?"

Raven glides from the bench into Ella's cupped palms. "Allow me to tether you, magician. Focus on me and do as you have been doing," Raven instructs.

Ella isn't in the habit of blindly following orders but for Raven, she is willing to suspend her disbelief, if only for a moment. Her familiar is so strikingly confident that Ella feels a little stupid for not thinking of asking Raven for help in the first place.

Ella catches Anthony's eyes. "Don't let anyone interrupt me."

"I won't," he says solemnly. He turns away, widening the stance of his feet as he plants himself as a barrier between herself and the rest of the council. It's an oddly comforting and strangely familiar sight.

Ella brings forth her magician's vision with a blink and stares down at the shining depths of Raven's onyx eyes. _Begin_ , Raven encourages silently, and Ella does, allowing the lifelines belonging to humans and potentials and trolls and goblins and werewolves and faeries to drop away. Ghouls and harbingers share so many qualities that it trips her up.

 _You know the common factor in banshee lifelines_ , Raven reminds her.

Right, the misty shroud overlaying the lifelines belonging to Esme and Kate and Alice. Not second guessing herself, Ella allows those lifelines to drop out of her field of vision, too. And she follows Raven's directions more easily now, trusting in both of them as they eliminate Emet's lifeline and Kebi's and Black's and all the other odd ball creatures in the town.

By the time Ella is pared down to _just_ ghoulish lifelines, a fine sweat has gathered on her forehead and the rest of the world is a white noise blur. She knows she would never be able to do this independently - it's too delicate of a task, too closely linked to meditation and being serene and Ella is not a serene person. Raven is a serene creature, though, and doesn't seem to mind how heavily Ella is leaning on her to do this.

 _Which ghoulish lifeline is not like all the others_?

Raven's prompting instantly refocuses Ella's attention. It takes no time at all to find the spiky, flat cord of sticky dark green agitation stretching down to the south of the town - and Ella feels a moment of triumph -

But then she sees a bright orange lifeline flare bright like the sun all of the sudden - a familiar one that she's spent the last hour trying to look beyond - and notices that the fear-tinged orange is awfully, terribly close to that murky green. Her stomach drops like a stone and Raven caws in alarm.

Ella isn't even thinking. Her magic is gathering around her, heat burning at the sigils scarred into her skin, the shattered glass foci on her hands shining a blinding silver, and her eyes feel like they're on fire for all the intensity of the magic suddenly thrumming through her -

 _Peter_.

Her magic stretches toward Peter's lifeline - there is a strange _popping_ of her ear drums - and then a gritty screech paired with a wet, pained gasp -

Between one moment and the next, Ella has gone from the Charmstone town square to the Charmstone cemetery -

And there is Peter, body dwarfed by the unhinged ghoul actively trying to make lunch out of his intestines - and Peter's bright lapis lazuli eyes glassy with pain - blood, rich and coppery in the air, sprayed across the underside of his jaw -

 _No_.

* * *

 **A/N: Would you believe me if I said my hand slipped? Whoops!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	92. part 6: interlude

**interlude**

* * *

 _Try not to get bitten by anything on accident_.

Word for word, that is what Ella had told him back when she made the big reveal that Peter Isn't Exactly Human. Peter knows. Peter remembers.

Peter thought she was joking, mostly.

Admittedly, he'd been kind of distracted by the fact that he could actually learn magic, like, if he _wanted_ to. Like, the choice was there. He was already doing the research to help Ella defy laws of nature and working up the nerve to actually try a spell for himself when the whole thing with Seth went down and Peter is a reasonable guy, okay, and he'd taken one look at the mayhem caused by Seth and took a _huge_ step back from the magic thing.

No, thank you. Hard pass.

Peter has been human or thought he was human instead of _mostly_ human for his entire life and he'll tell anyone that it's not a bad gig. Honestly, being a supernatural creature seems like an undue amount of stress and since Peter is a stress eater - ice cream, of course - there's no way he'd be able to keep his girlish figure if he found himself in half the situations Ella seemed dragged into kicking and screaming.

That's what he tells himself. It's solid reasoning. Peter is too spazzy, too neurotic to ever _really_ consider the possibility of shifting his spark of potential into something more. He's convinced himself that he'd die within a week.

But then, well - life happens.

Because before he knows it, April has come along and his tradition with planning one hell of a prank on Bree with Riley is halted. One minute, it's the night before April Fool's, and he's listening to Riley extol the virtues of using real feathers over fake, and then his gaze is drifting to Riley's mouth and he's wondering what it would _feel_ like - finally - to just kiss his friend the way he's wanted to since high school - and then Peter realizes that Riley's mouth isn't moving because Riley has fallen silent because _Riley has noticed that Peter is staring at his lips_.

Peter isn't exactly proud about it, but he'd done what any _reasonable_ closeted man with a crush the size of a Hulk-smash would do - he fled. Really, really quickly while knocking things off Riley's desk and bruising his elbows and stammering some kind of excuse that he was late for babysitting the triplet terrors he calls siblings -

Peter had tripped out the door with his heart in his throat and booked it back to Mom and Pop's house - because that was _much_ preferable to reeling over how un-fucking-perturbed Riley had been by Peter's staring -

Because there's _no effing way_ , okay? There just isn't. Peter is _comfortable_ in his delusions, thanks, and none of those delusions include reciprocity.

Because it's _Riley_.

Back at the ramshackle house he grew up in, his parents are markedly relieved at his sudden arrival because it turns out that little Makenna has a fever and it's been keeping everyone else up and _nobody_ likes it when six year olds are all cranky at the same time. So Peter does the Big Brother thing, settling into this role that came so naturally to him once the triplets were born and he'd stopped freaking out that his parents were _still having sex_ , _gross_. He's a good brother. He feels more like an uncle because of the age difference and because his own parents had had him _so_ damn young that they've never really been, like, _parents_ and more like friends. Whatever. Point still stands that Peter is good at brothering.

He stays up all night with Makenna. They watch Monsters Inc., because it's her favorite, and because the medicine he's giving her features the same cartoon and Makenna is appreciative of the symmetry. Come morning, he's happy to report that his little sister's fever has broken and he's just about to go to sleep himself when Charles starts coughing.

Peter and his parents all mutter _crap_ at the same time. Peter volunteers to run down to the store to get more _sick kids oh my god_ supplies and maybe a gallon of ice cream for himself - because he hasn't forgotten his fuck up, oh no.

He's halfway there when he gets the text, one of those town-wide alerts for severe weather that shows how technologically advanced Charmstone is for such a strange, small town. _High wind speeds_ , it says, followed by a _stay indoors_.

Peter frowns up at the trees. It's spring and spring is windy, but this isn't _severe_ wind. It's barely even _put on a jacket_ wind.

All in all, Peter prides himself on being a pretty smart guy, so it isn't difficult for him to put two and two together - and come to the conclusion that some supernatural shit is going down right now. Spontaneous supernatural shit, too. Which is probably worse than Ella's brand of _the monster has some sort of long-con game going_.

Peter has a choice to make. He can go back home or he can finish his errand. It's not really much of a choice, is it? His siblings need medicine and he's already _out_ of the house - and what's the worse that could happen, really?

He doesn't even get to the store, in the end.

Peter walks maybe one more block and just as he's passing the creepy cemetery, there's a growl - and then there's a sharp pain across the front of his chest, along with a horrifying first-person view of exactly what arterial spray looks like - and then there's this ghastly _thing_ growling over him and a whole lot of pain. He cringes away, deeper into dirt and his own blood, turning his head while his heart starts to gallop and breathing becomes a super-not-fun challenge.

It's worse than when the freaking kelpie had dragged him under to make some sort of point. Instead of choking on water, Peter is choking on his own blood.

He kind of thought his last moments would be the peaceful kind. He'd been banking on dying in his sleep like his grandfather.

No suck luck.

The _thing_ \- whatever it is - presses teeth into Peter's belly, which he strangely cannot feel anymore. Everything is kind of fuzzy. He's drifting and floating and seeing silver-eyed girls pop into existence from out of nowhere.

Teleportation - that's kind of cool.

Wait.

 _Ella_ , his mind recognizes before he properly makes the connection. _Wow. She looks pissed_.

Peter sees a crackling flash of Ella's magic - blinks - and then she is kneeling over him, pressing sparkling hands against his body and looking angry _at him_ even as her eyes water. She's not crying, exactly, but she is muttering mean things at him that he can only half-hear. A lot of _you idiot_ and _didn't you get the message to stay inside_ and _fuck fuck fuck_ -

Peter's last coherent thought is that he should have kissed Riley when he had the chance.

* * *

 **A/N: Wow, you guys _really_ like Peter. Honestly, though, I've had this planned for Peter ever since I first thought of his character. (Don't worry too much.)**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	93. part 7: 1: peter

**PART SEVEN**

* * *

 **one**

 **peter**

* * *

Ella can't think.

She isn't - _this is instinct_. The same kind of instinct that looped her arm through Jane's and dragged her away from that horrible place and to the hospital. The same kind of instinct that kept her away from seedy alleys and eager pimps when she ran away that winter in the city. The same kind of instinct that says _trust him_ about Carlisle and _don't trust her_ about the hag. The same kind of instinct that surges through her right when she needs it the most - those moments when thinking isn't a thing that is done, when there isn't time to do anything other than react and respond to what's directly in front of her. Impulsive, unpredictable, throttling with adrenaline from the moment she finds stability beneath her feet.

Lightning sparks from her hand, arcing with spine-sharp accuracy toward the ghoul currently mauling Peter, like an arrow sprung from a bow. Even as the lightning bolt strikes the ghoul, spinning it off of Peter with a yelp and a sickening _thud_ as the body slams against a nearby headstone, Ella is already in motion. Walking forward, world spinning around her.

She sees time in lurches; one foot forward, stun the ghoul; another foot, and she's kneeling at Peter's side; another second, and she doesn't much care to know if she's killed the ghoul or not.

(Even though she shouldn't be killing it, really. She shouldn't. The ghoul is out of control, a rogue, a maddened, hungry, aching beast, but the ghoul still is part of Stefan's authority and it's not quite up to her to decide who lives or dies this time.)

(The ghouls isn't moving; it isn't actually important.)

Magic is spilling between her palms, white-hot and too much and not enough - because it isn't helping Peter. The magic isn't _helping_. _It's not working_.

Ella screams obscenities, the kind that inspire expressions like _curse a blue streak_. She's berating Peter, she knows - she hears herself questioning his intelligence and calling him an idiot and her eyes are burning and itching. Not enough to cry, because there isn't _time_ to cry. Peter is _dying_ and her magic isn't fixing it.

Her mind whirls, calling back all those stupid flashcards Peter made about the human anatomy, and as she puts pressure on the evisceration of his abdomen, she wonders _intestines or liver_ , _which is more important to save_? She licks her lips, trying to do so many things at once - stop the bleeding, mend the flesh, keep his slowing heart beating - and Peter stares up at her, more and more sightless by the second.

Ella doesn't understand. She doesn't get it.

Peter is a potential - he has that spark of magic, a nugget buried deep in his soul, and that spark _should_ be latching onto the magic she is pouring into his body. But it isn't. It won't.

What does _that_ mean?

Peter's lifeline is thinning, inspiring a new wave of panic to swell behind Ella's ribcage. She's reeling, scrambling for an explanation.

Nobody knows why exactly there are potentials, only that they exist. Every potential can become a creature - that's a point of fact.

Is it - is it possible that Peter isn't _meant_ for magic? Is that why the magic isn't working? Because _Magic_ doesn't want Peter, or whatever type of magic-user Peter would become?

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she breathes, leaning her hands heavier on the gaping wound in Peter's stomach. It's gross, seeing his so-red blood well up around her fingers, sticky and hot and molten against her skin. Her stomach doesn't heave, though, and she's glad for that. One less thing to worry about.

Slowly, almost pointlessly, the magic begins to work. The bleeding slows by a fraction and Peter's heart keeps beating and while Ella is relatively certain she could keep this going for a reasonably long time - especially if she drew from the ley lines - maybe that would be enough - but it won't save Peter's life.

He needs an intervention that Ella can't provide.

" _No_ , this isn't how you die," she tells Peter through gritted teeth.

Peter makes a groaning noise, but it isn't a response that means anything to Ella. Peter's delirious, not long for the world and -

Raven caws overhead, a sound followed by a baritone yelling her name.

Relief shoots through Ella, sharp and sweet, when Anthony skids onto his knees on Peter's other side, flushed in the face with eyes gleaming a lupine golden-green. He takes in how ineffectual Ella's magic is, then looks down at Peter, clearly assessing.

"Magic doesn't want him," Ella says shortly.

"But the spark is-?"

Ella's response is curt. "It's there. I can feel the spark, but I can't touch it. Maybe-"

"Maybe I can," Anthony finishes.

And Ella knows what this will mean - she knows what she's asking for with this. If Anthony bites Peter, if he turns Peter into a werewolf, then Peter will always be Anthony's beta wolf. Peter's life will be changed forever. But at least he'll have a life to have been changed.

He'll be _alive_.

"Do it," Ella says.

Anthony's features morph and sharpen, brow growing heavier, ear ridge marking into a point, a mouthful of fangs behind pulled-back lips, and his eyes shining a bright, backlit green. When he bows his head over Peter's side, he is doing so as an alpha werewolf willingly giving the gift of the bite and all that the transformation into a werewolf will entail. Anthony's teeth sink deep into Peter's torn body, just shy of where flesh is curling away from ribs, and when he pulls away, his mouth is stained red.

Ella doesn't let up on her magic. She's afraid to, honestly, not knowing how long it will take for the magic of an alpha's bite to find its way to the dwindling spark residing inside of Peter's very soul. Pulse pounding in her head, Ella strengthens her resolve and presses magic into the body beneath her hands - hoping to buy time, to make the transition easier - but mostly to monitor Peter's spark.

In the end, it doesn't take very long at all. Twenty minutes, maybe less.

Peter's spark latches onto Anthony's bite gratefully, soaking up the magic of a werewolf like a cactus to water. And when that happens, Ella eases back with her magic, unwilling to interfere at this point - knowing just by sensing it that Peter has already changed.

His lifeline, once so brightly orange, is now threaded with the same metallic sheen as werewolves, a cord of lupine strength that tethers Peter's life back down to earth.

That's when the healing begins.

Peter screams, back bowing, and the lapis lazuli of his eyes flashes electric blue -

The color of a bitten wolf.

* * *

 **A/N: That's right, all of my plot notes from the very beginning of Peter's character has _WEREWOLF_ right on top. Of course, I didn't think _I_ would get so emotional writing his transformation, but. Eh. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	94. part 7: 2: not david kessler

**two**

 **not david kessler**

* * *

They have to move Peter out of the cemetery because even after Ella casts a silencing charm to quiet the sheer pain of his transition into a werewolf, Peter is still covered in gore and dirt and something tells her that coming-to while looking like he walked off a crime scene isn't the best way to welcome Peter into the new phase of his life.

(And honestly, Ella doesn't much feel like dealing with the fall out with Stefan once it comes to light that she had _almost_ killed the crazed ghoul, to which her succinct response was, "Next time, I'll make sure my aim is better.")

(As if Ella _cares_ about Stefan's outrage.)

The thing is, though, that ordinarily a newly turned werewolf would be kicking it with their alpha - and since the alpha in question is living in a college dorm and since Prospect Hall has been spelled t not admit anyone who isn't a potential, there isn't really a place for them to _go_.

Ella might have volunteered Carlisle's house if not for the fact that new werewolves are volatile and neither she or Anthony are willing to put anyone in the direct line of metaphorical fire. It narrows their choices down significantly. There isn't anything for it, because in the end Anthony scoops Peter up without even a flinch at the blood still coagulating and follows Ella down to the bookstore, avoiding his mother's probing stare all the while.

(Because there's another kickback from how they'd saved Peter's life - an alphas first bitten wolf is a _big deal_ and Anthony had given that bite away without hesitation and without asking permission and his mother will have _words_ about that later.)

To his credit, Anthony expresses exactly zero surprise once Ella allows him to pass through the bookstore's wards with Peter. Almost as if he expected her to be doing something like this. Which, _odd_.

Ella hasn't step foot back in the bookstore since she decided that she was going to somehow buy it, but the last several weeks have been nothing but effort into making her ownership a reality. Ideally, she would have liked to wait until the spring semester was over, when she would have time to go through all the dusty books and introduce a feather duster to the place, but needs must. And Peter needs a place to go. The little loft above the bookstore seems as good a place as any.

Ella clears the cobwebs out of her path as quickly as possible, casting a cleaning spell on the loft once she opens the creaking door. There is a sagging bed and rotten food in the fridge and more mold than she cares to contemplate, but the window is wide and once her magic has cleared the worst of _yuck_ away, the space isn't altogether unwelcoming. Peter seems at least marginally more comfortable on the hag's old bed than he had been on the ground in the cemetery.

(Ella carefully avoids any further thoughts about who had lived her before now.)

"How long will it take?" she asks after another spell is cast, this one to sop the blood off Peter's skin. Her stomach turns once she gets an unfettered view of the gaping wound in his stomach, but she can already tell that it's much better than it had been ten minutes ago. Werewolf healing factor is admittedly pretty legendary. Peter is certainly benefiting from it at the moment.

Anthony shrugs, arms crossed over his chest. "Depends. Could be a few hours, could be a few days, could be until the next full moon."

"And when is that?"

"Two weeks."

Ella wrinkles her nose, hoping that Peter's transition doesn't take _that_ long. She can only imagine the smell, which is saying something because the loft isn't exactly scented like daisies at the moment.

"Nice place," Anthony says.

Ella snorts. "It will be. Are you okay to stay here for a while, keep an eye on him while I secure the place?"

Anthony side-eyes her. "Secure it?"

"Buy it."

"You're _buying_ it?"

Ella lifts her chin, turning away from the grimace on Peter's face, an expression that twists something in her chest. It's much easier focusing on the next thing, on Anthony, than really thinking about how much she's just changed her friend's life. How different he'll be. "Liam's been helping me. I have paperwork in triplicate and everything."

"So, we're squatting."

"Technically," she confirms. "Until I buy it. Which is what I'm going to do now. After I get all this blood off me."

Anthony shakes his head in what might be disbelief, but steps aside when she goes for the stairs and he doesn't say anything to contradict her plan. That - makes it easier, sort of.

(The simmering anger burning in her gut is useful when she drags Carlisle down Charmstone's lone bank later; Ella wins the bid on the bookstore through Liam's faultless paperwork, Carlisle's co-signer status, and the sheer intimidation factor of her silvery glare. It goes as smoothly as she could have hoped and she didn't have a lot of hope in the first place.)

(Is it _bad_ of her to use the cloak of chaos presented by the ghoul to wiggle her way out of the political bickering that would have surely gone down with the town council had she actually taken the time to do things the right way and get approval first? Maybe. But it doesn't change the fact that she's now, like, a _business owner_.)

By the time Ella is back - bearing take-out from Sam's Diner in paper bags, enough to feed two ravenous wolves - to the loft _above her_ store, Anthony has made himself comfortable. The sight of his bare back as he scrubs at his skin in the sink basin is the first thing she sees when she opens the door; he barely turns his head in greeting while heat rushes up her neck before both of their attention is torn to the third person in the room.

Because Peter is awake and mid-way through a pretty epic freak out that Anthony seems content to have ignored for this long. But at seeing Ella, Peter springs up from the bed, eyes like electric blue strobe lights.

"Oh, my God, I'm _David Kessler_." At their blank looks, Peter gestures frantically at himself, eyes round in desperate animation, sharpened nails at the tips of his fingers that catch on his ripped sweatshirt. "You know, _An American Werewolf In London?_ It's a _classic_ and now I'm - I mean, I'm glad to be alive, don't get me wrong but oh, _God_ , I don't want to go on killing sprees and bite off heads and -"

"Get ahold of yourself, Peter," Ella says coolly, placing the paper bags down on the lopsided vinyl table. "You've known werewolves all your life."

"Don't use _logic_ with me. This isn't a time for rational thinking! This isth noths - nothh - my mouf - God, my teef!" Peter exclaims around the sudden protrusion of fangs in his mouth, the appearance of which seems to have given him one hell of a lisp. Ella hadn't ever thought of it before, but talking well with a mouthful of oversized sharp teeth must be something that takes practice.

(It's kind of entertaining now because Peter is a _talker_ and now he can't talk without sounding completely ridiculous.)

(Peter doesn't think it's very funny when she snorts at his agitation.)

(Anthony does.)

* * *

 **A/N: It's such a bad movie that it's good, so watch it if you haven't. I say the same thing about _Teen Witch_.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	95. part 7: 3: grr, arrgh

**three**

 **grr, arrgh**

* * *

"So, like, I don't mean to be a dick about it, but _seriously_? Why do I have to sleep in the creepy loft over the creepy bookstore with the creepy torture chamber in the basement?" Peter's whining tests the edges of being sub-vocal, the kind of high-pitched canine sounds that only his newly improved vocal cords can produce. The whining also tests the edges of her patience, but Peter is still very new at being a creature of the night and she reminds herself that she has to make allowances.

He did almost die. And he _is_ using his time away from school - correspondence with his assignments online, which is very technologically progressive for a school as old as Viridity - to sort through the incredibly disturbing catalogue of books the hag had stuffed haphazardly onto shelves. He's even created an index, ranging from _Fit For Public Consumption_ to _Questionable_ to _So Evil It Burns_ , by which they are using to sort through the entire store.

A _lot_ is going to the _So Evil It Burns_ pile, which by unanimous decision will be stored in the basement until further notice.

Ella pauses in levitating books based on amount of _squicky_ aura wafting off of them for only a moment, just long enough to shoot Peter a droll stare. "I think I must have heard you wrong," she says. "Did you _mean_ to say, _Oh, Ella, thank you ever so much for letting me crash here free of charge so I don't go on a rampage while I become acclimated to being a werewolf_? Because if that's the case, all I have to say is a sincerely heartfelt _your welcome_."

Peter frowns at her. If bitten wolves were capable of the full-tilt shift into an _actual_ wolf, then Peter's ears and tail would probably be drooping; as it is, his shoulders slump forward just a bit. A beat passes, and then he says, "Message received loud and clear boss, okay, but here's the thing. I saw a spider large enough to contemplate world domination or at least be featured in Tolkien's universe under the service of Sauron and, like, I'm not _proud_ of it, but I wolfed out for an entire hour this morning. Can you do something about that at least?"

Ella snorts. "You're the worst werewolf in the world, aren't you?"

"You have no idea," Peter laments.

Ella does actually have some idea. She's heard enough about it from Bree, who is effectively Peter's werewolf trainer and who comes back to the dorm everyday gloating about how Peter's control over his wolf is worse than her little cousin Ben's. Bree is very much enjoying her position as first beta, even if she does grudgingly admit to the fact that sooner or later, her brother would have had to add another beta to his fledgling pack, as a true pack is at least three wolves, not two. That said, she's heard about it from Anthony, too, because now they're seeing each other a lot more often - a given considering that it's _her_ place that's being used as Peter's training grounds - and Anthony isn't shy about grumbling over Peter's "lack of predator instinct". From what she can piece together, Peter gets worked into the shift too easily over the wrong reasons and falters on shifting with intention for the right motivations. Hence, the spider anecdote.

She isn't exactly surprised. Peter may not be acclimating to being a werewolf as seamlessly as other bittens - but Magic didn't _want_ Peter, so Ella has to have even the tiniest bit of belief that Peter _is_ meant for werewolfhood. Werewolfdom? Werewolfiness?

"The full moon is tomorrow," Peter continues, setting his elbows on top of a bookshelf as he watches Ella continue to magically sort the books. "And you know what Alpha, My Alpha said? That I haven't even had a taste of the full range of my werewolf abilities and responses. The last two weeks have been, like, an appetizer or something. Dude. I'm _doomed_ , because I have no idea how I'm going to cope with anything when all my senses already feel like they've levelled up this much."

"Hn," she hums noncommittally. Because what is she supposed to say to that? With Peter, she's learned that he just needs to talk _at_ people sometimes and then he feels better. She isn't like that, she doesn't understand how ranting is going to be at all cathartic, but then she's very aware that she's damaged.

"You're _so_ not helpful."

She shakes her head with a sigh. "Do I look like a werewolf whisperer to you?"

"Yes," he returns promptly, completely matter-of-fact in a way that is seldom _Peter_.

Ella narrows her eyes at him. "What was that?"

For whatever reason, Peter turns bright red and begins to sputter about _the wondrous invention of sarcasm_ and _I don't know what my nose is telling me half the time_ \- he ends up working himself up into a partial shift, all heavy brow and blinking-bright eyes and claws, and Ella feels bad enough for him that she lets his weird comment slide. For now.

(Because it seemed _super_ pointed, didn't it?)

Aside from the books that need sorting and a _serious_ magical cleanse so the place doesn't feel as fucking foreboding, the progress with _The Magic Shop_ is noteworthy. Especially considering that Ella is only stopping in for a few hours everyday; Peter is terrified of touching anything that hasn't already been approved as "safe-ish", so things remain stagnant unless Ella is physically in the building. Considerable work still needs to be done, of course. Ella's artistic eye is craving natural light and earth tones; she has a vision of clearing the center of the floor and exposing the lovely walnut hardwood beneath the threadbare rugs; and upstairs, she's considering more than just a little bit of a paint job to make it livable. Then there's the basement and it goes without saying that Ella is trying to avoid it for as long as possible, because while she hasn't gone down to _confirm_ it yet, she just knows that the chains that held her captive for the hag are still hanging from cinderblock walls.

And then there's other things to think of - what she is mentally terming her _summer project_ , which includes creating an inventory and doing advertising and the opening of the store and, really, she might as well hire Peter since he's already _here_ and -

The thought has crossed her mind, maybe once or twice, that she need not go back to school next semester. She's kind of skipped a step, here. Does she need an art degree to run a magic store? Not really. And yet, she's a bit torn. Maybe she should talk to Carlisle about it, just to see what rational people do when faced with these kind of choices. Or do one of Kebi's thought experiments to see just how impulsive the idea is, and then judge whether or not the impulse would somehow become deleterious to Ella's long-term life goals. Talking about her feelings and being a functional, level-headed human being, it turns out, is a real fast way to suck the fun out of everything.

Kebi would say to not decide right now; take things one day at a time. Carlisle would encourage her to pursue an education, but would be supportive no matter what she chose. Raven, she knows, would simply be baffled by the very notion that such a choice has left Ella flummoxed.

She's kind of annoyed at herself about it. Honestly.

In the peripheral of her awareness, Ella's attention is drawn to a familiar aura coming toward the store; in addition to a charmingly irritating little bell that rings each time the door is opened, Ella has taken the time to place wards around _The Magic Shop_ that are similar to the ones around Red Lily Hall. If someone is looking for her once they cross the wards, she'll know; if there's a danger coming around the corner, she'll know; and if that early warning system weren't sophisticated enough, Ella has learned to fine-tune wards enough that she can sense the general intention of the person crossing the barrier. The massive benefit to this is that Ella's lack of supernatural senses is more than bolstered by the wards, because it's clear as day by the way Peter jumps a foot in the air when the bell dings that she sensed Anthony's approach eons before the beta werewolf.

Ella bites the inside of her cheek. Laughing would be really mean, even for her.

Anthony is tall enough that he must duck his head as he enters the shop, running a hand through windblown toffee curls. His generous mouth slants into a displeased moue the moment he realizes that Peter's quarantine has - yet again - been broken by Ella. Once it had become clear that Peter's control is less than stellar, Anthony had expressed a very _firm_ opinion that Ella should keep her distance until after the full moon and maybe longer, depending on how Peter reacts to the lunar cycle.

Ella isn't in the habit of letting anyone tell her what to do, even for good intentions, if it goes directly against her own desires. This was shown in full force at the last town meeting when the town leaders, excluding Black who was once again missing in action, pulled her aside and attempted to dress her down for "pulling such an underhanded stunt" in her bid to buy the hag's old bookstore. Was it underhanded? Ella thought it was opportunistic, a well-planned strike of rebellion, and nobody had ever accused her of being short on cunning. She hadn't let the council's disapproval change her mind and she hasn't let Anthony's fairly given warning sway her away from her store _or_ the newly turned wolf residing above it.

So under his solemn, silent rebuke, Ella merely rolls her eyes. "What?"

Anthony shifts, placing himself between her and Peter as subtly as possible. "Thought you were going to at least wait until someone else was here. Just in case," he adds in a stilted mutter when Peter immediately protests.

"As if. Please, I could drop failwolf over there with a spritz of electricity in a second. He's not going to hurt me."

"That's right!" Peter agrees, and then swiftly becomes alarmed. "Wait, wait - you'd _electrocute_ me? Ella?"

Anthony ignores the beta, looming a step closer - looming only because he's so damn tall and it seems like that's the only thing he _can_ do. "He hasn't seen his first moonrise, he's jumpy as hell, and _all_ bitten wolves are shit at mastering control. Unpredictable. You don't know for a fact that you'd be quick enough."

"Want to bet?" she challenges.

"This is your safety I'm talking about," Anthony says lowly. "It's not a joke."

"Sure sounds like a joke from where I'm standing," Ella retorts, shifting so one hand is on her hip as she stares up at Anthony. All magical sorting of books had stuttered to a stop the moment he stepped through the front door, leaving books hovering mid-air while Peter falls silent in the background. "Let's not forget that I'm no mere human."

"Couldn't ever forget that," Anthony says, and something in his voice has changed.

Her stomach flips as Ella becomes aware of how close they're now standing, having drifted toward each other without realizing it. The heterochromia of his eyes - verdant edging smooth golden amber - is startling up close, framed by dark lashes and off set by an array of freckles just beneath his eye near his nose. It's terribly distracting. She feels she should be irritated by him about something, but damned if she hasn't already forgotten what it is -

Ella opens her mouth to say _something_ , but then Peter's voice rings out across the shop, tone tinted in exasperation. "Oh, my God! If you two brood at each other anymore, the world is literally going to implode!"

The books drop like stones to the ground as both Ella and Anthony turn to stare at Peter. Within seconds of each other they demand: "What did you just say?"

Peter blanches, eyes flashing electric blue once before he meekly says, "Uhh…implode? Boom…Don't mind me," Peter amends quickly. He curls his hands in the air, a mimicry of claws. "I have no idea what I'm talking about - I'm just a yellow-bellied werewolf, see? Grr. Arrgh."

Heat suffuses Ella's cheeks and she is suddenly uncomfortably aware of how close she is standing to Anthony. She steps away under the guise of going back to sorting the books, hoping that the somersaulting of her heart isn't heard by the werewolves in the room.

In the corner of her mind, though, she feels the thought lurking deep. _What was_ that _?_

* * *

 **A/N: It's called a crush, Ella. She was never socialized properly, guys, I just don't know what to say. Except _grrr, arrgh_.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	96. part 7: 4: men in black

**four**

 **men in black**

* * *

Ella sees it by happenstance.

She's only in town because she forgot her sketchbook - the big, twelve-by-twelve spiral pad with rich paper that absorbed ink _just so_ \- up at the loft and she actually needed it for the studio class she is officially running late to. If she could just figure out how to recreate the whole teleportation gig, her time wouldn't be cut so short, but as it is, Ella can't seem to do the same trick twice.

Which is why as she's marching away from _The Magic Shop_ with irritation stamped across her face - and why she is able to catch a glimpse of an old man with half a head covered in bandages and a plastered arm talking to someone who is very much not a Charmstone native.

Mr. Wickles appears to be talking to a real life manifestation of a Man In Black. Jackboots, shades, and everything present and accounted for - just instead of a badge flashing in the spring sunlight, all Ella can see is the outline of a gun in a holster beneath a leather jacket.

It would be highly suspect if she ducked behind the nearest telephone poll, so Ella doesn't allow her stride to falter. Instead, she tucks her sketchbook beneath her arm, quickly memorizes the glaringly human lifeline springing away from Mr. Wickle's new companion, and lets her eyes slide away from the scene.

Being able to make snap-second judgments, to make assessments at the drop of a hat, to sense _danger, danger Will Robinson_ in less than a breath had served Ella very well when she was just a street rat. So it isn't anything at all to casually chart her surroundings and locate - yes - two more _tourists_ and a big, black SUV idling just off the town square with a driver watching very intently from behind the windshield.

They aren't even trying to be subtle.

 _Raven_ , Ella calls silently. She crosses to the next sidewalk that will lead her back to campus and waits for her familiar to respond. Feeling that she has Raven's undivided attention, Ella casts a glance over her shoulder, this time seeing one of the MIB tip his head to Mr. Wickles before walking off toward his compatriots. _What am I looking at?_

Raven's curiosity at the other end of their bond is sharp. _Difficult to say._

 _Then guess._

 _Two possibilities_ , Raven decides. _The preferred option is that those men are part of The Coterie and are investigating the human element of the recent altercation with the ghoul you…apprehended_.

Ella shivers. The Coterie, the network of creatures keeping the supernatural world under wraps; the organization that Carlisle used to work with; the same organization that let Ella get lost in human foster care instead of being raised by someone more appropriate. It wouldn't be _great_ , exactly, if The Coterie felt that the ghoul warranted intervention, especially considering that the damn each uisge caused more damage and that the hag's fucked up little ritual with Ella had lit up ley lines in other _states_. In fact, it would actually be kind of _weird_ if The Coterie only showed up _now_ after all the danger had passed.

A sense of doubt creeps up on her. _Okay. What's the other option_?

Raven's tone carries such a heavy weight of foreboding that Ella nearly flinches. _Hunters_ , her familiar answers grimly. _They could be hunters._

Ella glances backward again and this time she catches the passably-friendly eye of one of the leather-clad men. He turns away without a wave, muttering something to the man beside him, and Ella's lips pull into a frown. Her stomach clenches and beneath the swell of dread, there is a simmer of ever-present anger that pushes right to the forefront of her mind. Magic rushes beneath her skin, prodding the hair to stand up on her arms, on the back of her neck.

She has a feeling she knows who just rolled into Charmstone.

* * *

 **A/N: Happy Halloween, folks. How about something actually spooky this year? The threat presented by bigots armed with propaganda and guns - more chilling than any ghost story.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	97. part 7: 5: teen wolf

**five**

 **teen wolf**

* * *

For some reason, Ella held the delusion that after Peter got through his first full moon and learned to not wolf-out at every loud noise in the two-block radius of his hearing he would be - like - _better_. Or something. Less skived by being a werewolf?

Ella doesn't think she's ever been quite this wrong before.

It's week and a half after the full moon - almost _May_ \- and Peter has taken to sulking in the loft by day and groaning about _heightened sensitivities_ by night. Ella is quickly growing sick of it. How bad can it possibly be? He's alive, and sure, he has all these overwhelming new abilities that are stronger when the moon is out, but his reluctance to seep back into normal life is getting out of hand. His parents have apparently been calling around the Scooby Gang, asking after Peter while he offers up increasingly flimsy excuses for his prolonged absence.

And Ella has this niggling feeling that the _actual_ reason that he is so hesitant in joining the rest of the world again - aside from end of semester finals that are creeping up on all of them again - is something _else_. Something related to being a werewolf, but not. Call it a hunch.

Finding the loft seemingly empty once she shoulders her way inside, a trio of bags and boxes from Charmstone's lone hardware store floating along behind her, Ella feels a keen sense of exasperation. Peter is not lazing on the sagging mattress or rummaging the dirty cabinets or sorting through the crap that the hag had hoarded in what should be a dining room, but his lifeline does indicate his location even if she can actually lay eyes on his person.

The supplies thump onto the ground behind her; the paper bag rips, lolling purchases into the dim hallway beyond the open door. She pays it no mind, making an immediate bee-line to the closed closet door and opening it without fanfare. A mop of messy dark brown hair bowed over knees pulled toward his chin is the sight that greets her, Peter's long limbs folded toward the center in a gangly heap. Even though he's probably heard her from the moment she entered the shop below and her trek up the stairs and _definitely_ the way she taps her foot against the floor impatiently, Peter still makes no move to acknowledge her.

Ella huffs, glaring down at him for a long moment, before spinning on her heel and flicking her fingers toward the hardware store contraband, unloading half of her savings with magic, one hand stapled to her hip. It's the weekend and Ella's list of shit to do is growing by the day. She's been procrastinating on a lot of things - going through the basement, talking to Carlisle about returning to school, mentioning the Men in Black to certain people, to name a few - and it really isn't her idea of an ideal use of her time to wonder at whatever has driven Peter to hiding in closets.

That said, not three minutes pass before his tortured silence finally gets to her. She finishes shoving the remains of the hag's personal affects into the corner to make room for the various home improvement supplies, and then she spins back around. Ella pins the top of Peter's head with a stare that is hard enough to cut diamonds.

"Are we going to talk about why you're hiding in my closet?"

A muffled response, near to a whine. "No."

Ella's brow lifts in skepticism. "Are you sure?" she asks, mostly rhetorical, before barreling forward. "Can you at least tell me if this is a metaphorical closet situation, too? Because I thought you already had _this_ panic attack with a pint of Chubby Hubby and I'm pretty sure you aren't supposed to have a _second_ Big Gay Crisis. And if you are, you definitely shouldn't be in an _actual_ closet while you do. That's just exceedingly awkward. Even for you."

Peter's head snaps up, expression extremely affronted at the slight she has just handed him. His cheeks heat pink, eyes flashing bright, bright blue. "I can't have Big Gay Crisis Redux in _Riley's_ closet. Oh, my God, woman! Have some empathy!"

Ella rolls her eyes. "No, I agree, that would be an even more awkward place to have a sexual identity epiphany."

"Exactly. _Thank you_. Now, leave me in peace while I-"

Ella cuts him off, continuing her previous train of thought with faux lightness. She leans toward him just slightly, jeering. "I mean, Riley's closet would be in Riley's room and he gets _undressed_ in his room and, well, you're a boy. You know what else boys get up to in their rooms."

Peter's cheeks burn darker. "I hate you. I really, really hate you. You're the actual worst."

She shakes her head, huffing out a sigh. "Peter. Really, is this why you've been moping around?"

He ducks his head. "Y-you don't understand."

"Spell it out for me."

Peter scratches the back of his neck. "It's like - like, okay, the wolf - my inner wolf - is…it knows, I guess. That Riley is…That I - The wolf has these instincts, right, and my wolf is already rolling over and wagging its stupid tail just as the thought of seeing Riley and - I don't know, like, what's going to happen."

Ella frowns, darting a quick glance to Peter's lifeline - still unbound, not melded with anyone else's. Just orange and the metallic thread of the wolf, none of Riley's haughty teal. Not at all like the way Lillian and Emet, or Carlisle and Esme's are intrinsically connected. But listening to Peter, she wonders if this is just something that maybe werewolves know instinctively?

"Maybe you should talk to Anthon-"

"No!" Peter shouts with wide eyes. "Nuh-uh, no _fracking_ way am I mentioning this to him!"

At his vehemence, the last of Ella's annoyance with this little hiccup fades, and she finds herself sinking down onto her haunches to make herself eye level with Peter. "You know can't hide in this loft forever and I'm not about to let you actually stay in this closet. Literally or figuratively."

Peter's mouth turns down in a deep, anguished frown. "Please, dude. Just, like, let me slowly diminish in this nice, safe…super gross closet. You won't even notice me, I swear."

"No can do," she returns. "Get up, get out, and get stepping. Time to go back to school. Time to return your parent's calls. Time to man up, Peter."

"Ella…"

She stares at him. "Peter, he's human. Even if your wolf is…doing whatever…Riley is _human_. He won't be able to tell."

"But he knows wolves," he points out woefully. He peers at Ella with wide lapis lazuli eyes, spooked and nervous. "He'll know."

"He won't know," she counters firmly.

"He'll _know_."

But even though he sounds so certain of this and even though the worried crinkle doesn't fade from his brow, Peter allows Ella to pull on his arms until he is standing and edging out of the closet. He's chest is bare now that he's taken to sleeping shirtless, not all that surprising with the wolf heating his blood, but she has a clear view of the scar just under his ribs - the alpha bite from Anthony that will never fade and that will forever mark Peter as a mythological creature.

Ella takes Peter's hand, staring up at him with a challenge. "So what if he figures it out? Maybe Riley should know."

 _Maybe he already does_ , she thinks, recalling the barely detectable disappointment she's seen in his face each time the group crossed paths and Peter remained unseen. _Maybe humans can feel what the wolf feels_.

She doesn't say this; Peter clearly isn't in an accepting mood.

Instead, she offers, "I bet this old bitch has a love spell hanging around here somewhere. If you want."

The corner of Peter's mouth lifts into a reluctant, oddly sad smile. "Everything I know about movies and comic books says that you can't _make_ someone love you, not even with magic. But thanks anyway."

And it's weird, because Ella has _fixed_ Peter's issue for the moment - he's out of the closet and interested in what has originally brought her to the loft so early in the morning. Goal accomplished. Except, it isn't. Not really. And Ella - she doesn't know what to _do_. Maybe there isn't anything she can do, except just be his friend. For someone accustomed to tackling every problem placed in front of her with all the force of a sledgehammer, finding that there is something that can't be overcome in the same way is disarming to say the least.

She doesn't really like the feeling.

* * *

 **A/N: Not going to lie, I've had this scene written since August. It's a relief to get it out.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	98. part 7: 6: an aside

**six**

 **an aside**

* * *

As the regular town meeting is clearing out, all the human and human-looking citizens filing outside of the little hall they use to congregate, Ella's attention is snagged by Aro. He saunters up to her, charming smile fixed in place beneath icy eyes, and makes a particularly flattering greeting, praising all that she has accomplished since joining the town council.

Ella is immediately suspicious. "What do you want?" she asks, eyeing him speculatively with her arms crossed over her chest.

To his credit, Aro's smile doesn't falter. Probably because Anthony isn't looming behind her at the moment, having been pulled away by his mother to ask after Peter's adjustment; Elisabeth hadn't so much as blinked at Ella and she isn't sure whether or not the lack of direct attention is a good thing.

Aro tilts his head to the side, eyes glimmering. "You know, there's something oddly familiar about you. Such a refreshing directness….it reminds me of some one," he says. "You wouldn't happen to share blood with Mab, would you?"

She rolls her eyes, unspeakably annoyed by Aro's ill-timed sense of whimsy. "The _fictional_ Queen of Faeries? No, I don't think so." Ella nods to the nearly-cleared room. "What's this about, Aro? You're running out of time if this is meant to be a private conversation."

Aro bounces on the tips of his toes for a moment, the perfect picture of unbridled excitement. "There's been someone in the woods," he reveals easily with a breath of impish delight.

Ella is unmoved by the revelation. "There's always someone in the woods. Hiking is a big part of our tourism draw."

"Yes, yes," he agrees, then raises a brow pointedly. "But I don't think that these are the average tourists. Far too much leather, wouldn't you agree?"

 _The Men in Black, the maybe-hunters_ , Ella realizes. She swings narrowed eyes to Aro, assessing his eagerness and the presentation of this information which by all rights _should_ be told to the council at large. And yet, Aro has singled Ella out.

"You've seen them, too."

Aro's bright smile seems a tad sinister as he says, "I have my eye on them, and then some."

Honestly, Ella is guilty of the same. She's been having Raven keep tabs of the Men in Black, quietly trying to figure out _who_ they are without drawing too much attention to the fact that the out-of-towners in Charmstone might be - well, the word _nefarious_ comes to mind. Raven hasn't seen anything particularly damning, but apparently Aro has, or at least one of Aro's fae has.

Mindful of the sensitive hearing around them, Ella lowers her voice. "Will you tell the council?"

Aro hums thoughtfully. "While that is _certainly_ an option, I thought you would actually do something about it. You're so action-oriented," he muses happily. "It's delightful."

"You could do something about them, too," she points out.

Aro waves this thought away. "No, no," he denies and there is a spark of something intriguing hiding behind his benevolent façade - something like anticipation. "No, little witch, I do believe this is a job that is meant for _you_."

And with that, Aro spins on his heel and enthusiastically greets the small gathering of the town council, drawing so much attention to himself that Ella actually has a few moments to reel. Her eyes follow Aro's back with no small amount of irked suspicion.

 _What the hell is that supposed to mean_?

* * *

 **A/N: Yeah, Aro, I'd like to know, too!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	99. part 7: 7: damn your mood swings

**seven**

 **damn your mood swings**

* * *

Silencing spells cast on her feet or not, Ella still cringes when she steps on an errant twig and feels the thin wood buckle beneath her weight. Lips pressed together, she stares down at her foot for a moment, then glances around, and then locks eyes with Raven's onyx gaze. Her familiar is nestled in the loose cage of her grip, helping Ella to focus her magician's vision as she trails behind the all-too-human lifelines stretching into the forest. Part of the forest that Ella is not at all familiar with.

 _Carefully_ , Raven intones once its clear that Ella has unwittingly broken her own concentration. _Do not lose focus now. We are close_.

 _I know_ , Ella is quick to say, an ember of irritation flicking through her magic as she rolls her shoulders back before continuing on. A silencing spell is only as good as long as the caster remains unobtrusive; Ella has found that her presence in this part of Charmstone's forest is anything but. She has the sense that she is not welcome here - but also not exactly unwelcome. It's a strange feeling and stranger still is the fact that the Men in Black seem to know exactly where they're going.

Because _yes, of course_ Ella is following the lead that Aro so generously shared with her - regardless of whether his intention is to stir up trouble, the fact remains that there are people in this town that she has adopted for her own that _do not belong_. And these people carry guns and the underpinnings of menace on their faces and Ella can't help but think of any man who has ever dared abuse her when she sees them. Even from afar, she is irked and perturbed by their presence.

She wants them gone.

But more than that, she wants to know _why_ they're here. What's the reason? What's their purpose? _Who_ are they? She has a hunch, but she wants absolute confirmation. Mostly so that when she _does_ bring this up with the town council, they won't have to waste time bickering amongst themselves and hemming and hawing over what to do about these mysterious visitors. She wants _proof_.

Ella forces out a careful breath, blinks twice, and latches her gaze onto the dull red thread spinning off between the trees -

And then a hand drops down onto her shoulder and Ella swings around, releasing Raven and summoning bright sparks of silver magic in her hand in the same breath. She stops short, however, once she sees who it is that has snuck up on her.

"Anthony."

He's scowling down at her, his heavy brow furrowed and curly, burnt-toffee hair loose in the spring wind, eyes glinting a lupine gold. "What are you doing?"

She raises a brow. "How did you find me?"

A valid concern, given all the trouble she went through to prevent herself from being tracked; a few spells for silence and masking her scent and dampening her magical output and even a spell to bend light away from her. She _should_ be nearly invisible in every way that matters, and yet here Anthony is, practically coiled is dispassionate disapproval.

"Answer the question, Ella," he says lowly.

She scoffs. "You answer mine."

Intelligence sparks behind his fractured-colored gaze, the cogs in his brain turning, churning out the only possible explanation. "This is about whatever Aro had to say the other day. You're listening to the word of a _faerie_?"

She bristles. "Don't go making assumptions. I'm doing this of my own volition," she tells him firmly, wondering somewhere far back in her mind why it matters so much that he understands her motivations. It shouldn't matter, but it does. It does. "There's some trouble brewing, I think, but I wanted to be sure. The better question is why are you following me - _how_ are you following me?"

Anthony shifts uncomfortably at that, then pointedly ignores the question. Again. "Why didn't you call me?"

It is Ella's turn to stiffen. "What?" she asks with faux causticness.

(Because - actually - one of her first thoughts, maybe even the very first thought she had after Aro confirmed that someone is stomping around the Charmstone forest, was that she should tell Anthony. Recruit Anthony. Ask Anthony what he thinks about what she and Aro had seen. She'd resisted the urge, of course, because she…

Didn't have a reason to not tell him, really. She just had the irrational and unmitigated desire to go in alone - an impulse that she couldn't ignore.)

Anthony crosses his arms over his chest, the fabric of his simple shirt pulling across his shoulders. "It's not _safe_ to be stomping through the woods by yourself. Didn't you think this is something I could - that I _should_ \- help with?"

Ella's fierce streak of independence rails against his attitude and quite without thinking she spits out, "Honestly, I didn't even think about you! Not for a second!"

 _Lie._

 _Lie, lie, lie. Filthy, dirty, rotten liar_.

"This is my town," he says, resolute. A reminder to her, she supposes, though it isn't necessary. Ella is acutely aware that Anthony - the wolf or the human - had been nowhere near her life until she moved to this stupid little supernatural hamlet.

"It's my town, too," she returns, stubborn. Because she's been connected to this entire place in so many ways over the last year, the last several months - maybe it had started with Carlisle moving them here, or maybe something had changed when the hag did her rituals and Ella first tapped into the ley lines. Maybe it was both. Maybe it was neither. But this place and the people in this place? If Ella knows anything about herself, it's that she isn't quick to trust - and by extension, loyalty isn't something that just pops up out of the blue.

Charmstone seems to have defied this aspect of herself, because in spite of all her damn issues, this town feels like _hers_. She isn't about to let anyone forget it, either.

But then to her surprise, Anthony's lips spread into a completely sardonic smirk that is not at all attractive. "Good. Then you won't mind if I tag along."

He doesn't wait for her response before tilting his nose in the air, sniffing twice, and heading off in the direction of the Men in Black. Ella just barely quells the urge to stomp her foot in frustration as she hastens to follow along after him; instead, she holds out her arm for Raven to perch on and recasts her spells, pointedly throwing the same masking spells at Anthony's back to keep him just as hidden.

He looks at her over his shoulder, an indecipherable expression shadowing his face for just a moment, and then slows his pace so that they can walk side-by-side, each of them tracking the Men in Black in their own way.

(And Ella ignores the overwhelming relief fluttering behind her ribs - because she's not alone in this hunt now.)

(When did she stop _wanting_ to be left alone?)

It doesn't take long for them to hone in on where the Men in Black have been spending their time - a lot of time, judging by the ever-thickening trail of burnt-out cigarettes littered on the forest floor. The specific area still doesn't seem familiar to Ella, but Anthony seems to know it. He grows more agitated the closer they come to a thinning of trees up ahead, and then his growl is suddenly bitten off by a hastily aborted sneeze.

Ella glances at him in surprise. His eyes are watering slightly and glowing alpha green, his features sharpening into a partial shift. "What? What is it?"

He bares his teeth at the men gathered ahead of them, men who can't see or hear them because of Ella's spells, men who are fiddling with guns and muttering to each other. "Wolfsbane," he mutters with a glower. "Fucking hunters."

"So it is hunters," Ella breathes. She shakes her head, frowning. "Hunting what? Care to tell me what it is exactly that I'm missing?"

Anthony's shoulders are a stiff line, jaw clenching and unclenching for a long moment before he answers. "Werewolf hunters - they've been here before, a few years ago. And," he pauses, cocking his head to the side. "They're staking out the pack houses."

Her eyes widen. No wonder the area hadn't seemed familiar to her - it was part of the territory that Elisabeth Masen claimed exclusively for the werewolves in Charmstone, an entire little compound collection of houses deeper in the woods than any other streets in town. Anthony's _home_ is being threatened and his mother, who apparently knows nothing about the hunters circling closer and closer like hungry sharks.

"You guys haven't done anything," she says, almost a protest. "All the bullshit in town has been…"

"Doesn't matter to hunters. Never does. They'll take any excuse."

 _He's right_ , Raven concedes. _Hunters are often fanatics._

Ella peers around the wide tree that they are leaning against. Five hunters, all of them still oblivious that they are being watched in return. Her magic reaches out almost by rote, brushing against a whisper of _something_ familiar.

She catches Anthony's gaze. "What are we waiting for? Let's kick their asses, get them out of here."

A beat passes, then another. Anthony nods decisively. "Let me lead," is all he says before he steps away from the tree and deliberately draws attention to himself, effectively breaking Ella's spells.

Quicker than Ella can see, the hunters have all brought up their guns, training them on Anthony who is bristling - resisting the shift. Soon enough, those guns are pointed at Ella, too. The stand-off is tense, several long moments of the two groups staring at each other, each simmering in their own anger. But then, one of the hunters in the back lets out a whoop of delight, shouldering in front of the others with a grizzled grin.

"Oh, don't you look familiar, beast?" The hunter jerks the barrel of his gun at them. "Look-it that, boys, it's a beasty that we've tussled with before!"

 _Does Anthony know them?_ Ella wonders. And then she startles to realize that the hunters aren't looking at _Anthony_ \- they're looking at her. They're recognizing _her_ and she hasn't ever seen them before.

"Not talking about the wolf," says another hunter. He spits on the ground, flicking the safety off his rifle. "Lost a man to you, beast. We got a debt that needs'ta be repaid."

"What?" Ella scoffs, feeling magic snap just under her skin. "Look, Appalachia, I don't know you and you don't know me-"

The first hunter laughs, throwing his head back. " _Oh-ho_ , she doesn't remember!" He points his gun at Anthony again, seeming to ignore the way that the shift is coming over the werewolf with slow ease. "Well, with a face like that, can't blame a girl for trying to hard to forget you, huh?"

Anthony growls, low. "Thought you were told to never come back to this place, Mallory."

The hunter shrugs. "Eh. We weren't doing nothing wrong," he says. "Just…checking up on things. Making sure that all you mutts are behaving yourselves. You see how we might'a been worried, what with a clawed up old man and all those dead hikers turning up in these parts. Them news reports sounded pretty…concernin', if you catch my drift."

"Consider your concerns unfounded," Ella says.

The hunter shakes his head regretfully. "Now, see, I ain't sure I can do that, beasty. Heard a rumor while we was in town." He stops, cocks his gun and jabs it toward Anthony with a jeer. "Seems like your mutt here has taken to biting some of the local folk. We can't have that. Can we?"

And Ella is - admittedly - kind of _confused_ because she's _clearly_ missing something, here.

But - there's a gun pointed at Anthony and several more pointed at her. And these backwater hunters look like they're the trigger-happy sort. And she has a feeling that they've been sniffing around for more than what they're saying they have, otherwise why would Aro have bothered to point her in this direction? It's more than just werewolves. It has to be something else, something more.

Ella isn't about to be patient and wait to find out, though.

Screw getting proof and going to the council and following some semblance of an order.

Ella's hand lashes out, palm facing outward with a flare of silvery magic leaping forward and spreading out into a tangible force that throws all the hunters backward ten feet. Some bounce against trees, while others slam onto their backs. "I'm tired of talking," she tells them, stepping around Anthony. "Are you ready to listen?"

Mallory - the leader, maybe - groans on the forest floor. All the cockiness of the last few minutes has vanished and he is pale as she moves to stand over him, looking down on him like one might an insect. He swallows.

"I'll be honest," she tells him and her magic makes the wind whip around them, stinging and burning and cold against the hunter's skin with barely more than a thought. "I don't really care why you're here - because you'll be leaving. Right now. And I don't think you'll be stupid enough to come back again, will you?"

"They won't," Anthony says.

She hums consideringly, still looking at the men laid out so easily on the dirt. She smiles, a sharp thing that is falsely sweet. "They don't want me to really lose my temper," she decides. "Isn't that right?"

Mallory nods, jerking to his feet along with the rest of the hunters and when they reach for their guns, Ella watches as Anthony growls loudly. _"Leave them_ ," comes the rumble of his voice and to her delight, the hunters listen.

Ella snorts. Men in Black? She'd severely overestimated the threat these so-called hunters presented. Or at least compared to the previous threats that had been in Charmstone, hunters seem almost like child's play. Whatever it is that Aro seemed to keen about seems to have been thwarted and for that Ella is relieved.

Still, to Anthony she says, "That was kind of anti-climatic."

He's staring off into the distance and she watches his profile, the perfect angle of his nose and the cut of his jaw and the strength of his neck as her stands there.

And -

She's starting to trust Anthony - trust that she can rely on him to _be there_ , to _step up_ , to _do what needs to be done_. And that's a dangerous thing. Because Ella isn't quick to trust. She isn't. It took a year for her to trust in Carlisle and less than one half-truth to take all that trust away and then another several months of working at it to trust him again. In all her life, she hasn't had much cause to trust in anyone or anything and she is inherently mistrustful of everyone. Even Peter, once it became clear that he was going to stick around her prickly edges, and even though she trusted Peter faster than anyone before, Peter had never given her any reason to doubt him. Peter asked for nothing, expected nothing in exchange for his friendship and it was so odd to Ella that he slipped beneath her walls before she even knew what was happening.

Anthony is different. He is mercurial and capricious. He makes her head itch with wondering about him - about his howling, about his grumpiness, about his calculations even the face of what is proving to be a ferocious temper. She has found him so hot-and-cold that she shies away from getting any closer than strictly necessary.

Except - mood aside - Anthony has never let Ella down.

And that habit of his to be so _fucking_ reliable is starting to mess with her head. She wants to trust him. She probably already does, if not reluctantly. It doesn't help that she's attracted to him, that he might be the most striking person she has ever seen in her life, and that she wants nothing more than the opportunity to do a dozen sketch studies of him in all the different lights of day.

And then he goes and does something like _this_.

He… _lies_.

To her face.

"What were the hunters talking about?" she asks when it's all over and done, when tail lights are fading red in the distance and once again it's just the two of them. Somehow, it always comes down to just being the two of them.

Anthony won't even look at her, refusing to meet her eyes. "I don't know. Nothing. They were talking shit."

Lie.

Such a blatant fucking bald-faced lie that she almost can't comprehend it.

Just like she can't comprehend how her magic got into the ward sigils traced into the trees surrounding the Masen compound - that whisper of familiar magic that she'd felt for just a second right before the confrontation.

Nothing is making sense.

* * *

 **A/N: Ah...well, here is where it starts. Oh, boy. So many things. You guys should see my plot notes at this point - _so many colors and codes_. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	100. part 7: 8: fahrenheit 451

**eight**

 **fahrenheit 451**

* * *

The semester ends quietly - finals are taken, parties are thrown, boxes are packed, and students move out of their dorms before the week has past. The last two weeks have felt distinctly fuzzy for Ella, so much so that she's relieved her art classes required a final project rather than a test. She feels like she moves through molasses, a dazed sort of numbness while she tries to reconcile what has put her in this state of mind.

When exactly did it happen that Anthony became someone so vastly important to her that any omission, any smidge of dishonesty from him felt like someone has taken a cleaver to her chest? It's the kind of breathless shock that leaves her lost in her own head for hours on end, vacillating between the sting of betrayal, the second-guessing shock, and bitter, cold anger.

Because - it's not just the fact that Anthony is lying about something. It's bigger than that, bigger and more serious than _just one thing_. He's hiding something with the same type of cover-up tactics that the government used on Area 51 and all its done is led Ella into a state of Roswell-paranoia. She doesn't like any of it. She doesn't like that her mind travels back to every interaction she's ever had with him - human and wolf - so that she can wonder _did he set it up this way? Did he trick me? What's the end game?_ Even more than wondering _why_ he's lying is the way it makes her feel so wretched. It's like the Carlisle debacle all over again - but… _more_ , somehow. Not worse, but deeper.

If she's more snippy in the weeks it takes for April to pass into May into almost June - well, people can either deal with her mood or get the hell out of her way.

(And if she's reverted back to avoiding an issue rather than confronting it, then she tacitly ignores that regression, too.)

Ella doesn't move back into Carlisle's house after she's sat for her last final. Instead, she lugs all of her belongings to the loft and greets her new roommate with a remoteness that leaves Peter twitchy - and chattering - as they begin the real work of renovating The Magic Shop. Now that summer has come and they are both left with a bucket load of free time, Peter has devised a master plan for getting the shop up and running in time for the fall semester, absolutely confident in his estimation that her enchanted wares will be in high demand.

She lets him take the lead because it's less hassle that way. If Peter _wants_ to spend hours researching the best way to strip paint from cabinets and refinish floors, then she isn't going to try to dissuade him - even though it's clear as day that Peter has seized this project as a means for his own _continued_ avoidance of certain Riley-related concerns. At this point, who is she to judge. _Fuck it_.

With magic doing all of the heavy lifting, by the time the weekend has come around all of the not-fit-for-public-consumption materials are shunted into the basement, other sellable items shuffled to the back storage room, and both the shop and the loft cleared out of all the shitty furniture the hag seems to have preferred. Ella can't decide if the spaces are more disturbing with all the half-rotted shit or less; the emptiness does, at least, give them a better idea of what they're working with and all the extra crap that needs to be replaced. It's a lot of work for two people.

They don't exactly discuss it, but neither Peter nor Ella ever get around to calling any of their friends for help.

Instead, Peter occupies himself with the detail-oriented tasks, trotting around with a screwdriver tucked behind his ear and smelling of the sharp, acidic paint thinner he's using on just about everything in sight. Ella, meanwhile, concentrates on the demolition part of the gig - part for the catharsis of crushing moldy porcelain tiles in the bathroom and part to master the fine-tuned control of _not_ tearing through the wall on the other side of the plaster. They sleep more in drywall dust and fumes than in the sleeping bags they'd borrowed from the Martin family garage and no matter how much she scrubs at her skin in the kitchen sink, Ella doesn't think she'll ever be clean. She can't say that she minds it, really. Part of the appeal in art - for her - has always been the permission it allowed in getting dirty, like she could finally match her outside to the warped chaos in her head.

Too soon, though, there is something that cannot be avoided. The basement, where she needs to do _something_ with those dark, dark books and where she needs to know - once and for all - if _this_ was the place where the hag had kept her captive. The morning dawns bright and too early and already warm. Ella scrapes her short hair into a stubby ponytail atop her head, dons one of Peter's discarded shirts, and spends a solid ten minutes staring down the dim tunnel of the basement stairs after she opens the door.

There's a dark stain on the floor just below the bottom step and when the stairs creak _just so_ beneath her weight - she knows. These are the stairs the hag pushed her body down. These are the stairs that Ella lived under for little more than a week. And, yes, those are the iron chains and manacles that kept her leashed to the grimy cinderblocks. The stupid candle is even still there, burnt out with yellowish wax spun across the floor.

Ella's heart lodges itself somewhere in her throat, chest tight as her skin breaks out in a sudden sweat. She licks her lips, trying to pull in deep breaths as she studies this place where she was so scarred. Her blood is still crusted around the iron cuffs, spilled from where the hag carved into her body like a fucking Thanksgiving turkey; the scent of urine is still strong enough that bile rises against her tongue.

She doesn't want to be here.

She doesn't want to be looking at this.

She doesn't _want_ this goddamn confirmation of something she'd already _known_ deep inside.

She doesn't want to feel the oppressive, cloying darkness of the fucking hags stupid sacrificing, dark magic, _fucking_ evil books -

And quite without her conscious bidding, Ella's magic rises sharply beneath her skin - so sudden its almost painful, a sear of heat tracing down the scarred sigils she _still_ can't stand to look at, lighting up the magician's glass shards fashioned over her hands, and finally bursting from her with a gasping, hungry swath of blue-white flames. Ella yells, a thing full of rage that cracks her voice and fuels the wildfire licking at the horrible boxes full of horrible things - and Ella, she stands right in the middle of it all, feeding the all-consuming fire, screaming and screaming and screaming.

(Distantly, there is a sound, a voice yelping, "Ella? Ella! Oh! Oh, holy _shit!"_ and then the creaking of stairs catching fire and a shout of pain - but Peter can't reach her, he can't break through the wall of flames circling her. He's being pushed back up the stairs by her magic and then he is still yelling, still trying to get to her and to no avail.)

It _hurts_ , but in a way that is good. The heat scorching all of her magical pathways, reminding her of that terrible burn that came in the wake of surviving the hag, touches that angry, dark thing deep in her chest, that piece of herself that points at something forever broken in her mind, just as shattered as the glass of her foci. The fire doesn't touch her as it burns brighter, but she can feel the heat in a way that makes her _want_ the pain and it -

She isn't crying.

She's bawling, sinking to her knees, pressing the heel of her palms against her eyes, as if that could possibly hold in the tears streaking down her heated face -

Her chest feels ripped in two, lungs empty and clogged with smoke, but she isn't moving. She can't. She's caught in this horrific feedback loop, remembering the hag whispering _dearie_ as she cut into Ella, as she hit Ella, as she taunted Ella down in this fucking basement - and it just feeds her terrorized anger, pushing past the limitations on the foci so much that she can feel the glass begin to burn into her skin over the sigils -

And then -

Then there is another voice shouting her name and a ferocious growl and strong arms locking around her waist after - somehow - breaking beyond the barrier of her magic and all that super-heated fire. She's too weak to fight against it, even though she knows who it is and she doesn't want to _see_ him, so she lets her limp frame be carried up the stairs and out of the shop. She's coughing, even as Anthony is cursing a blue streak.

"Fuck, _fuck_ \- Ella, _breathe_ ," he urges in a voice just barely not a snarl. He's hunched over where he has placed her just outside the shop, hands heavy on her shoulders to hold her up. "Put the fire out. Ella - _put it out_ -

Ella reacts with a holler, shoving his touch away with a fierce glare. _"Fuck you_ ," she sneers, baring her teeth at him even as she waves her hand sharply over her shoulder - then twists her wrist while fisting her fingers together, willing the fire to vanish just as suddenly as it appeared.

"Ella -"

She pushes against his chest, hitting him hard enough to bruise a human. "What are you doing here?" she demands, then shakes her head in agitation. "No, you know what? I don't _care_. Get out, you fucking _liar_ \- "

He returns her glare, eyes blazing green as he snaps out her name again.

"Shut up! Shut _up_ and _leave_ ," she yells, pushing him again, still to raw from one ordeal to deal with a new one.

Anthony's expression twists. "Listen - _listen_ to me, Ella! You're going to understand why -"

" _Go away!"_

"Ella-"

"Anthony," Peter says quietly, working his way between them with a healthy sense of caution. He holds his hands up when Anthony rasps a growl. "Don't shoot the messenger, dude. Just…like, give her the space she's asking for before she decides that the walls will look better splattered with your blood than the paint we just bought, okay? I've…got it under control now…"

Anthony dithers, looking more torn than Ella thinks him capable of - but then she is turning around, closing her eyes and refusing to do _anything_ until she can sense that he's left the little backstreet where the store is located.

And then, shoulders shaking, she lets Peter hold her together while she falls apart.

(And she definitely - pointedly - does not spare a second to wonder why Anthony could break through her magic where her best friend could not.)

* * *

 **A/N: _Such_ a heavy chapter to write, but a necessary one. Everything is connected, darlings. Hang in there.**

 **Full disclosure, Fahrenheit 451 is one of my all-time favorite books. So good. _The degree at which book-paper catches fire, and burns…_ Bradbury was ahead of his time.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	101. part 7: interlude

**interlude**

* * *

" _You fucking liar_ ," she'd screamed at him as she pushed against his chest and shoved him away with her magic, all while brimstone filled the air and hot tears spilled down her cheeks.

Anthony paces a tight circle, carding his hands through his hair over and over as he growls in agitation. He _is_ a liar is the worst part of it, is the _truth_ of it - even if he is lying because he _had_ to, because there is no other choice _but_ to lie.

Christ, but had anyone ever been in such anguish?

Anthony knows - _he knows_ \- how she is about the truth, about honesty and loyalty and how those things are connected and how important they are to her. He thought he'd understood what all of this _goddamn_ waiting and silence would mean. He thought the secrecy would be a heavy burden and he's right about that, but he hadn't anticipated _her_ reaction. Which is stupid. He should have known. Hell.

Ella - _not his Ella but close_ \- knows that he's lying about something. The fucking hunters had given the game away. Assholes.

Anthony knows Ella doesn't think of herself as particularly smart, but she is. Goddamn, but she is smart in all the ways that matter and she'd been able to put two and two together just by listening to what Mallory was saying…and by listening to what Anthony _hasn't_ been saying.

How did he ever think - even for a second - that this could work? How did he ever think he could hold out for two-going-on-three years with this albatross of truth hanging around his neck?

Anthony snarls, so lost in his circling thoughts that he doesn't sense another's approach until the breeze shifts and the wind carries a scent along with it. He turns, forcibly relaxing his shoulders down with a roll of his neck, not bothering to hide the tightness in his expression.

"You smell like smoke," Ben observes with a frown. Cousin Ben is fourteen and sharp as a tack and the _only_ other one who knows what it is that has haunted Anthony for all this time. It isn't any surprise when Ben tilts his nose up, dark eyes widening minutely, which is as much of a reaction as anyone could expect from a teenager as messed up as Ben. "You smell like _her_."

Anthony shakes his head - out of helplessness, not denial. He's so tired of lies of omission. "Ben…"

Ben crosses the space between them, staring up at Anthony with eyes caught between anticipation and dread. "It _is_ her, right?" he asks, then shakes his head as he rocks back onto his heels. "For the love of - it's _happening_ , isn't it? All of it is going to happen."

"Yeah," Anthony confirms grimly.

All of it is going to happen.

Anthony is older and wiser and he's already spent the last few years wrapping his head around everything that went down that autumn - and all the things that wouldn't, couldn't, shouldn't change. But knowing that there is so much out of the control of people, that fate and time will do whatever the hell they want, and being able to tell that to a traumatized teenager are two different things. He and Ben share this thing, yes, but they don't _talk_ about it.

He's only now coming to understand that Ben has half-thought the whole thing has been some kind of fever dream.

"Then - then _she_ can -"

"She can't, Ben," Anthony cuts him off firmly. "Not even magic could undo what's already been done."

"There's always a chance that -"

"Ben -"

Ben snarls, eyes flashing gold as the shift suddenly overcomes him. "Let me guess, you're going to say that _nothing_ is going to change! I've seen what she can do! I've heard about it! I don't believe that she won't be able to save-"

"Nothing will change," Anthony interrupts tiredly, dragging his hand down his face. "Nothing can change. It's…going to happen the way it will happen, the way it was always meant to happen."

( _Her voice in his ear, fingers tracing over the new scar on his brow, the sadness in her scent. "There's a lot I wish I could change," she'd said. "But everything happens the way it will happen, the way it's always been meant to happen. I get that now."_ )

Ben lurches forward in aggravation. "Then they're just going to _die_? Just like that? And you-"

Anthony grasps Ben's shoulders, wheeling around his young cousin until Ben _has_ to look at him. "It's hard, I know, and it's not fair. I know that, too," he tells him, shaking Ben's shoulders a bit. "But I was there that day, I was on the other side with _her_ , and there wasn't anything we could do, Ben. I swear. There wasn't anything anyone could do."

Ben's chin trembles. "I miss them."

Anthony closes his eyes, thinking of his aunt and his uncle and Ben's siblings, all lost to fire and prejudice, and he swallows around the tightness of his throat. "I miss them, too."

He misses _her_ more.

* * *

 **A/N: Whoops, there it is. Or is it? It is. Isn't it? Yes. Unless it isn't. Confused? Good. Keep reading. This makes sense _much_ later. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	102. part 7: interlude interlude

**interlude**

* * *

It takes, like, a solid four days before Peter notices that there's a _scrittching_ sound coming from…somewhere…above their heads. Which is confusing. Because Peter's been living in the loft for, like, almost three months now and he's only _just_ realizing that there is, apparently, an attic overhead, complete with foldy-down, rickety stairs and a truly awful musty smell. After pulling on the cord to summon the stairs, Peter and Ella stand at the bottom, each with their own version of a dubious glance, though Ella's is more disgruntled than anything else.

Peter climbs the stairs, sneezing every so often because _God_ does this place need a dust-buster, or what? It's only fitting that he be the one to investigate; aside from the fact that he will never be at risk of getting rabies again, he _is_ the one who heard the noise in the first place, _and_ he isn't going to put some poor, innocent creature anywhere near Ella's quick-trigger wrath. Not that his best friend is, like, a sociopath or anything, but she is in a _mood_.

Werewolf sight is pretty damn awesome, he reflects, as it becomes clear that he can totally see everything in this forgotten little attic. He's hunched over, because it's more of a crawl space than a place for storage, but _apparently_ the hag didn't get the memo. "Jesus, this lady was a hoarder," Peter calls down with a grimace.

Man, he thought that they were _done_ with sorting through all of the hags creepy collection of random not-trash, especially after Ella's…burning time in the basement. But, _nope_ , there's more boxes and piles of what he would class as garbage. And more dissatisfying is the decided absence of the critter that had first alerted Peter to this new place of hassle. He sighs, then sneezes again.

"What are you talking about?" Ella demands from below, hands fisted on her hips.

Peter crouches down, pokes his head out just enough to catch her gaze. "I just found more crap," he says with a raise of his brows. He kind of enjoys the way her expression pinches, only because it wrinkles the bridge of her nose and it's so _goddamn_ adorable that it's a total juxtaposition to her general badassery.

"Seriously?"

Peter ducks out of view for a moment, curls his fingers around the box nearest to him, and heads back down the stairs with it tucked neatly under his arm. "I am, unfortunately, dreadfully serious. It's jam-packed up there and you _would not_ believe the smell. But, dude, check out this box," he says after he places it on the floor between them. Then, getting a better look at it, he frowns down at it thoughtfully. "I mean…it's all creepily pristine, right? What the fuck?"

Peter has a point. All the other boxes, including the ones Ella just razed in the basement, have been weathered, beaten, and moth-eaten; this box that Peter carries down the little drop-down stairs from the attic, though, is polished wood with a neat golden latch keeping the lid shut. It's the only wooden box that they've come across. It's also the only thing in the attic that, upon further inspection, isn't literally just boxes of crumpled up newspapers.

They open it, of course. Why wouldn't they? It's not like there's a lock and the hag is _super_ dead so there isn't any incentive to not open it.

But, oh _man_ , does Peter wish they hadn't opened it.

Because Ella really doesn't need this right now. Whatever shitstorm Anthony - _alpha_ , supplies his wolf ever-so-helpfully - had stumbled into with Ella, well, Peter wants no part of it and has been walking on eggshells ever since the Blazing Inferno of '18.

They figure out pretty quickly that this wooden box was the hag's, like, master dossier - specifically on information about _Ella_. That part is pretty easy to piece together. There's a monstrosity of a book, all leather bound and aged pages edged with silver, and it turns out that this book is some sort of genealogy. And right after he points this out, running his finger over the _le Fay_ embossed on the cover, Ella snatches it away from him, turning her back and flipping furiously between the pages.

Peter stares for a moment, because _strange reaction, buddy_.

But the book must mean something to Ella, because it occupies her complete attention while Peter continues leafing through the box. There are a lot of pictures of Ella, the old Polaroid variety with such shitty quality that it's actually kind of astounding he can recognize his friend's distinctive features in them. Stalker photos aside - some that even include him and the rest of the gang from last autumn - the only other things in the box include a lock of what must be Ella's hair, a vial of what _has_ to be blood, and an entire issue of the Charmstone newspaper, folded up neatly at the bottom.

Peter takes out the paper, wondering why the hag would bother to keep this along with all of her Ella-specific trophies. It's a boring article, cold facts just the way news should be reported, and so bland that it takes a moment for Peter to remember how big a deal it had been when Cheney had gone to state two years ago. Almost three, now.

"Why did she keep this?" he mutters, reading over it again. And then his eye catches on something in the grainy photo and Peter starts choking on air.

"What's wrong with you?"

Peter waves the newspaper in the air frantically. "It - you - there's a _thing_ -"

Ella sighs all long-suffering - which, hey, _rude_ \- and closes the leather genealogy book. She crosses back to Peter, takes the newspaper from him, and does the same-quick scan that he'd done. She shakes her head. "Okay. So, what? I don't get what I'm missing."

Peter makes a completely undignified noise. "You're missing…you."

"What?"

"See that there? In the corner of the picture?" He taps right over where Ella's face is half-turned away from the camera as she is captured mid-motion in crossing the frame in the background. She's wearing her freaking leather jacket and has the same short haircut as she does now and there's a _raven flying behind her_ as she walks against the wind.

"That's…..me."

" _Yep_ ," Peter says emphatically. He eyes his friend wildly, because she's a freaking _time traveler_ and it's so cool he might just faint. Can werewolves faint? Peter might be the first to do so out of excitement and he doesn't even _care_.

"Wait - this article is from two years ago," Ella says with no small amount of confusion.

Peter nods quickly. "Yes. Yes, it is."

"Holy shit."

"I second that, McFly," Peter grins. "Or would that be Granger? I wonder how you did - how you'll do - you know, _it_."

Ella drops the newspaper back into the box with a mighty frown slashed across her face. She's visibly upset and at that, Peter begins to deflate just a little bit. She laughs humorlessly, running a hand through her hair, the shattered glass fashioned over the back of her hand swirling in cloudy red smoke. "This…isn't even the biggest revelation from that fucking box," she tells him.

Peter rears back in shock. "In what world is _time travel_ not the biggest deal?"

Ella smiles, sad and grim, and opens the leather book to a page that has been marked with a familiar black feather, one that the hag probably somehow collected from Raven. She stares at the page for a long moment, then turns the book so he can read it, too. "Time travel kind of pales in comparison to knowing who my parents were."

Peter gapes at the extremely detailed, multiple-page genealogical trace of Ella's ancestors - starting with a figure that most of history has put down as part of legend - and then heaves out a gust of air. "You're one special snowflake, you know? Jesus, Mary, _and_ Joseph."

She glares down at the box. "Yeah, and look where it got me," she mutters, lost in thought.

Peter frowns, too. Because, _yeah_ , being as special as Ella hadn't ever gotten her anywhere good.

* * *

 **A/N: I'll be honest and say the best part about writing Peter, aside from his insight, is the ability to make up words (badassery, glitterdouche, etc.) and the very faint sense of _what in the world_ that comes along with his character. So fun.**

 **Not so fun is how much the hag was a stalker. Or is that fun? I can't decide.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	103. part 8: 1: sidewalk won't touch my feet

**PART EIGHT**

* * *

 **one**

 **sidewalk won't touch my feet**

* * *

How many times had she wondered? How many times had a birthday, a holiday, a milestone passed - and she had wondered about her parents? About where she came from?

Some answers were easier to find, like with her birth certificate, even for as weird as it is. Other answers come out of the blue, like learning that her mother had been murdered by The Order of _Mordred_ because Ella is a magician. And then there's that book that the hag kept in a wooden box, right along with trophies won from Ella's captivity, and those are answers that kind of quake the ground beneath her feet. The foundation of everything Ella thought she knew, everything she'd assumed about her parents, is showing some major cracks.

Like, Ella had _assumed_ her mother was the one who was descended from Morgan le Fay. In the back of her mind, Ella thought that her being a magician might be some type of matriarchal power deal, and that notion that she's been harboring is completely obliterated by the silvery family tree showing that her _father_ was the descendant of Morgan. The genealogy book had it all spelled out, birthplace, birth date, and death date of all of the le Fays since the very first.

Carl Svane, a Norwegian descendant of Morgan le Fay, deceased.

Her mother was another revelation. Written in the barest hint of gold, as if the book is rejecting any kind of imprint that isn't strictly _le Fay silver_ , is her mother: Renee Silva, a Brazilian-born, French-raised woman who was a descendant of Merlin. Also deceased, but then Ella already knew that.

Ella doesn't know what to do with what she's learned. Never in her wildest dreams would she have ever entertained the thought that either of her parents were related to _another_ mythical figure. But there it is, tracked in magical record, that Ella shares blood with not one, but _two_ particularly famous magicians - and that explains _so very much_ , doesn't it? And at the same time, it explains nothing.

Ella _has_ to assume that Carl Svane and Renee Silva had _some_ amount of magic. Not the kind that Ella has now, of course, because Ella's magic is its own entity, unbound and then bound by force of will and her own personally forged magician's glass, and it's not the kind of magic that develops in any natural way. But even before that, when Ella was a novice, just a regular magician relying on runes and spells, she was a force all her own. Something to be reckoned with. There isn't any way that her parents - magicians in their own rights - weren't the same way. Yet they'd both been killed, erased from the world, magic released back into the aether, and their only child left an orphan in a hostile world.

Does being related to both Morgan le Fay and Merlin mean that Ella had more magic in the first place _before_ the hag went and treated her as a convenient ritual ingredient? Did her parents have less? Did they not practice, did they not cast? Did they not know how to defend themselves? Or were they taken off guard, as Ella had been by the hag?

These are questions that she will never be able to answer.

She's coming to understand that there are some questions that remain unanswered. And isn't that disheartening? The victory of finally knowing _who_ her parents were dulls in comparison to the haunting questions that come after. Why? _Why_?

Unable to stay at the loft any longer and endure that big-eyed stare Peter gives her when he thinks she isn't looking - the look that spells _pity_ , even if he doesn't say it - Ella is left with nothing else to do but wander the town. Her feet move along the sidewalk, carrying her mindlessly forth while she retreats into the frenetic swirl of her thoughts.

So much has happened and all so quickly. She can't catch a breath or a break. Messes of her own making. Lies and half-truths from others. Epiphanies found in attics. She can't reconcile it fast enough - doesn't even know how.

So confusion fades into numbness, a weightless sense of detachment that makes the world around her feel not quite as real as it normally does. The only tether she allows is Raven, who has taken to perching on her shoulder, immobile and unwilling to leave. Clingy, even, if a bird can be called such.

Ella's wandering feet take her through the Charmstone forest, which for once is not banned from being explored by the general populace. For summer, though, the forest is spare of people; it's twilight and muggy around Beacon Lake, the water glass-smooth and backlit with orange from the setting sun staining the sky. She stares at it for a long while, lungs expanding against her ribs.

"Let's practice," she says suddenly.

"If you would like," Raven returns.

Ella would very much like, which is why she suggested it, but she doesn't snark back. There's a tension in her limbs, a restlessness that cuts sharply against the heaviness of her mind, and she feels like she has to do _something_.

Doing magic is - and probably always will be - her most preferable action.

Ella treads deeper into the woods, knowing well enough by now where people generally hiked, and also knowing that it's better for everyone involved that practicing this kind of magic is better done in solitude. She stretches her arms overhead, feeling muscles pull along her spine and hips, and blows out a breath - careful with her thoughts, keeping her emotions in the _now_ instead of -

Well, instead of anything that is remotely upsetting.

Ella's magic isn't bound by the laws of physics, exactly - it's bound by the force of her will power and, to some extent, her imagination. She's virtually unlimited. Except, of course, that she's found it's considerably easier to fuck with the laws of physics when she understands what it is exactly she's messing with. The basic principles are exceedingly useful, but Ella isn't academically inclined. It's _difficult_ for her to understand what Peter prattles on so easily about. So, if she can, it's easier to look up a spell, too, so she can fill in the gaps that are just too theoretically challenging to wrap her mind around.

It's been working so far. Until the issue of teleportation - _apparation, according to Peter and she can't begrudge his loyalty to Harry Potter_ \- that is, when by now its become glaringly obvious that Ella is turning into something of a one-trick pony. There isn't a spell to supplement the dense theory and that's kind of a problem.

One-time thing? She doesn't _think_ so, but that night when she had actually popped from one place to another was so fraught with other things - urgency, panic, _emotions_ \- that she can't be entirely certain of how she actually accomplished the feat. For certain, she knows that she just wanted to get to Peter as quickly as possible and that had been that.

There one moment, gone the next, with a pop in her ears and an odd displacement of the ground beneath her feet. She remembers the landing vividly; it's the actual act that seems insurmountable. Bidden by effort and residual heat of the day, sweat dapples her forehead as she calls her magic to rise within, a buzz of energy beneath her skin that has nowhere to go and so is expelled in massive strokes of wind.

"Again," Raven encourages from her perch overhead.

Ella drops her head back. "What's the point?" She huffs, turning to glare up at her familiar. "Don't you have anything helpful to say? Any advice?"

"You've done this once before."

Ella rolls her eyes. "I know that."

"Perhaps you should try retuning to the state of mind when you first accomplished this feat," Raven suggests.

Ella pulls a face. "I really don't think Peter will agree to being eviscerated again…"

She trails off, eyes catching on a glint of something at embedded into a tree not too far off. Almost by rote, her magic reaches out and she recognizes the something for what it is - _magic_. Ella doesn't even think about it. She holds her arm out for Raven as she passes beneath her perch, attention riveted on the bit of strangely, tip-of-her-tongue familiar magic randomly in the middle of the woods. Her boots sink into lush grass, new green leaves pulling at the sleeves of her leather jacket and her ripped up jeans, breeze catching on her hair to cool the nape of her neck.

When she gets close enough, Ella lurches to a stop, finally recognizing what has caught her attention.

It's a knife - _the_ knife. The same gilded blade that carved sigils into her skin, that slipped between her ribs to pierce her heart, and it is now deeply embedded into the bark of a sapling, one of the brooked, stubby _krumholtz_ trees peppered throughout the Charmstone forest. What had the hag called it? That's right… _Merlin's_ athame. A ceremonial magical blade that ironically belonged to someone Ella is actually related to and that has _even more_ ironically almost successfully ended her life.

It's a small world, after all.

 _But what is it doing out here_?

Ella glances around half-heartedly, already knowing that she's _nowhere_ near the hag's ritual site, because she avoids that place like the goddamn plague. Like, not that Ella had gone back to clean up the hag's fucking crime scene, or anything, but she'd assumed that Merlin's athame had been rightfully lost to nature or something. She doesn't know; she hadn't given the knife a second thought and for good reason. Even just looking at the bejeweled, golden-gilt hilt of the blade, she feels a rush of hot, fuming anger.

"What the actual fuck?" she mutters, finally stomping closer to the tree. Lip curling in distaste, a rabbiting beat of fury rising along with her magic, Ella reaches out, grasps the handle of the knife, and jerks the thing out of the tree. The old magic in the knife zings against her palm, the sigils scarred into her skin shivering with the barest of heat; like recognizing like. She doesn't drop the damn thing out of sheer stubbornness.

She glares at the knife, a voice echoing in the back of her mind _. You know, dearie, I think I might actually miss you_ , said the hag, right before the strike of this very knife.

"Who the _hell_ put this thing here?"

And is it paranoia to think that whoever put the knife in this tree somehow _knew_ about Ella's relation to the knife - _all_ of her relations to the knife? No. Not possible. Peter is the only one who knows; she hasn't gotten around to telling Carlisle about how thoroughly the hag stalked her last year, so she also hasn't told him about her recent familial revelations. And Peter wouldn't do _this_.

The problem is that Ella also can't think of anyone who _would_. Or at least not anyone who would reasonably have gotten access to this knife - wherever it had been - in the last six months.

 _Fuck, it's always something_.

Ella tests the weight of the knife in her hand for a moment, wondering what she's supposed to _do_ with it, and then finally tucks it into the interior pocket of her jacket. Screw it. If bloodrites are a thing, then the damn knife _belongs_ to her, doesn't it? It'd been bathed in her blood recently anyway and everyone knows that possession is nine tenths of the law. Or something.

In a fit of aggression, Ella kicks the tree with her clunky boot, a wordless shout working its way out of her throat. And it feels so _right_ to be angry - to feel that familiar red-bloom haze greeting her - that she kicks the tree again, and then pounds the side of her fist against the bark with another shout. A curse, an epitaph, a grievance. It's not even really about the knife, anymore. It's about dead parents and trauma and cryptic faeries and hunters who call her beast and boys who lie to her face -

It's anger about everything, a bottled-up build up that has uncorked itself right in the middle of the forest. Anger, her oldest friend, returned to her at last.

Ella sets the rage free.

"Calm down," Raven says soothingly when Ella bloodies her knuckles.

" _God_ ," Ella yells, spinning away from the tree and stalking back into the forest. Magic is rippling around her, an extra force that feels heavier than gravity, and her magician's vision snaps into focus. Anger is a heady thing and feeding it gives it a mind of its own. She tries to teleport again, fueling her magic with rage that is boiling over, and succeeds only in toppling a tree. "Fuck! Can't anything just _go_ the way I want it to for once?"

"Try again with me," Raven advises after a beat, sounding actually reluctant of the offer. Like Raven doesn't think it's a good idea, given Ella's current state of mind.

And maybe Raven is right, but maybe also Ella doesn't _give a shit_.

Ella swivels her head to the side, catching the onyx gaze of her familiar. Why hadn't she thought of that sooner? Hard magic is easier when Ella is using Raven - and teleportation on purpose is proving to be pretty hard.

She releases the clench of her molars and holds her hands out for Raven. The anger has turned into a frothing mass of frustration, a sort of aggression that Ella is familiar with, only because all of her worst decisions have come from this place of angry, thoughtless impulse.

Jaw set, Ella again summons her magic, the buzz building between her ears and boiling in her blood, and in a dim part of her mind, she distantly thinks all sorts of things that have nothing at all to do with teleportation. _I want to get the fuck away from here_ and _where did that knife come from_ and _what happened to my parents_ and _what the fuck is Anthony lying about_ and _why does_ he _have to lie to me, too?_

Magic rises high - breathless - then crashes around her - and something is searing the skin near her hip - and it _hurts_ \- she's out of her body -

There one moment, gone the next - with the world cutting to abrupt blackness as the breath is pushed from her body and her head slams against something and Raven squawks in alarm and her ears pop and her sigils _burn, burn, burn -_

There one moment.

Gone the next.

* * *

 **A/N: Ah…Yeah. Okay. Did a thing. Yay! Welcome to Part 8, or as I title it in my head, The Part With A Lot of Things. It's a working title.**

 **Svane is actually Norwegian for Swan, just as Carl is a Norwegian variation of Charles. Also an interesting note is the apparent immigration of French citizens en masse to Brazil. Real world facts are so much fun, guys.**

 **Contemporaneous note: As of 11/16/2017, I am having all four of my wisdom teeth extracted - fuckers have decided to grow in _sideways_ , what even - so I literally have no idea when I'll update again. Next week, hopefully, unless I decide to post something while I'm drugged up. Wish me luck. I hope I don't say anything embarrassing when I'm on the laughing gas. Fingers crossed.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	104. part 8: 2: the girl in the woods

**two**

 **the girl in the woods**

* * *

"When are you going to start taking this seriously, Anthony?"

Anthony leans back in one of two leather chairs stationed before his mother's desk in her office, arms folded over his chest as he watches her pace back and forth in the narrow space between desk and bookshelves. This office is featured prominently in many of Anthony's childhood memories - particularly those from when he was still enamored with his mother's role in the pack, before he came to the conclusion that being alpha is quite the bit of responsibility. He has fuzzy remembrances of sneaking into meetings with his mother holding court over her betas or negotiating with other packs in the state, and at some point his thought of _I want this_ turned into _I don't think I want this, anymore_.

As he is so often reminded, however, he is the only one of his siblings who has exhibited even the slightest inclination toward possessing the alpha spark. And if the Masen pack is to _remain_ the Masen pack, then to a Masen the inheritance should go.

What he wants - or does not want - has ceased to matter.

"I am taking it seriously, Mother," he says dully.

She doesn't hear him, of course, already launching into the continuance of her diatribe. "You are next in line to be Alpha of the entire Masen pack," she reminds him unnecessarily. "You are three years from undergoing the moon ritual that will evolve your wolf into an alpha capable of taking charge of your own pack. You have _obligation_."

"I know, Mother," he sighs.

"And yet here you are, freshly graduated from high school, wasting both your time and your potential. You aren't enrolled in classes at Viridity-"

"It's still summer. The deadlines for enrollment aren't until September," he points out, even though the argument is kind of slim. It's the last week of _July_ ; he really is running out of time to select classes for the fall semester.

Of course, he isn't even sure he _wants_ to go to the college. At least, he doesn't want to go to college for the reasons that his mother would like him to go. Anthony is interested in literature, but his mother has made her opinions on that degree choice very clear _. English majors don't run packs, Anthony; You won't have developed the interpersonal skills required of you to look after your pack with an English degree, Anthony; You would be better off with a degree in one of the other humanities, perhaps psychology._

His mother pins him with a withering stare. "And you've been shirking your responsibilities to this pack, allowing others to take on the leadership role that has been yours by birth. Did you think I didn't care that you allowed Renata to track the progression of that awful scent of wolfsbane in our territory? I noticed, Anthony, and I care," she tells him bluntly. "I'll not have it, either. You _must_ step up. You must-"

Anthony sits forward abruptly. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe I don't _want_ the inheritance? Maybe I'm not fit for it?"

His mother's countenance softens. "Anthony," she says softly, slowly halting her pacing to lean her hips against her desk.

"And maybe it won't even _go_ to me," he says with a roll of his shoulders that feels more forcefully uncaring that it seems. "Maybe Bree will surprise us all and pass the trials. Nothing is set in stone. I still haven't completed the full shift and I'm eighteen…maybe I'm _meant_ to be a beta."

Elisabeth Masen shakes her head. "My son, you have shown a proclivity for the alpha power since you were so very young. I'm confident that the obstacle preventing you from embracing the whole wolf is your own self doubt." She pauses, reaching forward to place a comforting hand on the top of his shoulder. "I know it's a lot. I went through the same thing when your grandfather picked me out of all my siblings, and unlike you, I was the runt of the pack. You can do this, Anthony. You _will_ do this."

There is no arguing with his mother. Anthony knows this.

"I understand," he says stiffly, shifting away from her touch to stand. "May I be excused now? I think I'd like to run patrol."

And he knows that his scent is giving him away, that his mother _knows_ he hasn't just suddenly accepted his fate as face value, but she is Alpha of over fifty wolves for a reason. She knows when to pick her battles.

"Wonderful," she smiles. "That's just the type of initiative I'm looking for. Listen to your wolf, my son."

Anthony dips his head, jaw clenched tightly. Sometimes, it's easier to not say anything at all; this is a lesson he is learning very well. All the same, his rebellion has always come in other ways. While Bree is content to loudly voice her protests and Riley tends toward absolutely scathing sarcasm, Anthony has always chosen silence and action. Hence his reluctance to pick classes.

Stoicism will only get him so far, however, and that is where his mind is as he half-heartedly lopes through the Charmstone forest in a two mile radius that denotes pack territory. Land he has grown up in; land he has shifted in; land he knows the sight, scent, and taste of better than he knows himself. Nature and instincts are steadfast, close to the wolf, and while Anthony runs these patrols, he gives himself over to the ancient beast lurking beneath his skin.

Which is why, with his nose to keen to scents that are not _pack_ and _family_ and _familiar_ , the downwind breeze is his first alert that not all is as it seems in the thicket of trees. Something has changed. There is a weight in the air, a kind of static that shivers on his skin and sharpens his nails into thick, dark claws jutting out from the tips of his fingers.

He does not hesitate to run toward where the summit of this static seems to be emanating. And as he runs parallel to the town beyond the line of the woods, an unnamable feeling begins to twist in his stomach, until at last he eases to a quiet stop at the edge of an innocuous clearing - odd that the trees themselves seem to be bent _just slightly_ away from the center - and in the center -

There's a girl in the woods.

Well. There's a girl _passed out_ in the woods, reeking of lightning in a storm and candied lemons and sweet oranges, and even with the ornate golden knife clutched in hand, Anthony recognizes that this is the type of girl that should be moonlighting in his fantasies - not the type of girl who mysteriously winds up on the edge of pack territory smelling so strongly of magic that his wolf raises hackles. And the girl is also - oddly - in the company of the largest raven Anthony has ever had the displeasure of seeing, as it screeches at his appearance and hops around the girl, flaring black wings in a wide arc as if to ward him off.

He suppresses a growl - just barely, because it's _a bird_ \- as he ventures closer, heart hammering at the implicit threat of someone _new_ on pack territory. Cautiously, of course, because this girl is an unknown entity and he's not an idiot. For half a second he hesitates and then he nudges her paint-splattered boot with the toe of his own. Still hopping around, the raven squawks indignantly and pecks at his ankle through his jeans.

"Hey," he finds himself saying to the bird. "I know she isn't dead, but maybe she needs a hospital."

The raven stares at him with these big, fathomlessly black eyes, and then backs off to hop around the girl's head instead of being annoying at him.

The girl doesn't stir, so he nudges her foot again. Too gently, maybe, but she's got this fragile air about her, a kind of gamine appeal that speaks in the way bronze skin is stretched over bird-like bones and wide, upturned features.

He tries it once more, taking a half-step back when her eyelids flutter and he catches a glimpse of the eerie, arresting grey of her eyes - a shade that is nearly colorless, alternating between washed-out blue and the barest hints of green, and flecked with a lighter grey. The contrast between her sooty lashes, pale eyes, and richly-pigmented skin makes his heart thud in the normal way, like when a boy sees a pretty girl.

But she is no mere pretty girl, is she?

"Anthony?" she murmurs, much to his _eternal_ shock.

He reels back another step.

The girl blinks confusedly for another moment, right before her gaze sharpens like flint, a razor edge appearing in his voice and settling with an undercurrent of power. The scent of the sky right before a lightning strike intensifies as her eyes flicker-beat silver, unnatural wind ruffling through her short hair.

He's right - his wolf is right - to assume that this girl is dangerous.

And she seems to know _him_ \- and he must not have left a very good impression.

"Anthony Masen, _fuck_ but of course it would be _you_ ," she sneers, sitting up on her elbows, the knife tumbling against her hip and onto the dry grass. "What is it, do you get some kind of sick satisfaction with the white knight routine?"

"Do I know you?" he hazards, unwilling to give the girl more ground than she's already gained, even with the brittle static prickling against his skin along with the whipping wind.

"Oh, that's really mature, you asshole."

He raises a brow, impressed by her venom in spite of the healthy sense of caution she inspires. "Listen to me," he says with deliberate care. "I don't know who you are or how you got here or why you know my name, but this is private property. You are on private land. Don't make me remove you by force."

"You could _try_ ," she snorts and then freezes. Around them, the wind also abruptly halts and the forest around them is incredibly quiet and the girl's brow knits in confusion. "Wait, rewind. You… _don't_ know me?"

"Am I supposed to know you?" he returns dryly.

"What the fuck," she breathes. Her eyes dart around, first falling on the raven who has gone quiet and then on the golden knife by her leg. She shakes her head. "Is this…no. This can't be happening. Is _this_ how it happens? Seriously?"

Anthony shifts on his feet. "Look, I don't know what your problem is, but talking to a bird isn't the greatest sign of stable mental health, so maybe-"

"Believe me, I know," she says, cutting him off. "But I haven't broken out of e mental institution, so can you just tell me what year it is?"

Incredulity rises within him and even though she's still sitting on the ground and looking more and more lost by the minute, he can't stop the retort that tumbles from his mouth. "That's not really a question that's going to convince me that you're a paragon of mental health."

"What's the year?" she asks again.

"2015," he says. "It's July 24, if that matters."

The girls' eyes roll heavenward. "Oh, my fucking God."

Anthony tilts his head, reluctantly curious. "What year did you think it was?"

"2018," she says emphatically.

"You're shitting me."

"I'm really not."

Anthony scoffs. "So you're, what, a time traveler? That's the story you're going with?"

"It's the unfortunate truth," she sighs.

"Sure it is."

She stares at him. "And of course you don't believe me," she mutters as she stands up, brushing debris from her backside and fixing the way her leather jacket sits on her shoulders. She picks up the knife, nose wrinkling just a bit, and tucks it into the jacket. And then she completely turns her back to him to talk to the _bird_. "Alright, I can fix this. I can-"

Taking the opportunity given, Anthony lunges mid-shift, going for the vulnerable curve of her neck, and quickly finds himself flung backward, back braced hard enough against a tree that he can feel bark splintering against his shoulders. The partial shift fades from him, mostly because of disorientation, but also because of the sheer disbelief rioting through him. She's fast and strong and possesses some kind of magic he hasn't encountered before, because she hadn't spoken a word - she'd only raised her hand, kind of lazily, and Anthony had been repelled.

The girl turns around with one hand on her hip, the other held partially aloft; some kind of material, maybe crystal, glints off the backs of her hands. Her eyes are shining silver. "It's amazing, but somehow I didn't expect for you to be _that_ stupid," she says dismissively. "You're lucky I'm still week from accidentally traveling back in time, otherwise you might be in a few pieces that not even alpha healing could save you from."

 _She's usually stronger than this_? Christ.

"I'm not an alpha," he hears himself confessing. "I'm still in my trials."

Her lips curl into a smirk. "Well, then I guess you're even luckier."

Anthony snarls at her confidence, trying to pull against the invisible - effortless - restraints he seems to be tangled with. "Hey, let me go-"

"Shut up and let me think for a minute," she snaps, turning a tight circle to mutter at the bird.

After a moment, it becomes clear that the only thing Anthony can actually hear is the forest around them, and he feels a renewed sense of caution regarding the girl - not only is her magic silent, but she also performs spells he didn't even know existed. From his vantage point, he can clearly see that she and the raven are caught in some kind of dialogue, but she's used magic to make it silent to his ears. That kind of power is - astounding.

And did she say she _accidentally_ time traveled?

Unexpectedly, Anthony is released from her magical hold, rendering him unable to do anything else but watch warily as she spins to face him after coming to some conclusion. Her eyes are no longer silver as she folds her hands into the pockets of her jacket, shifting her weight so that her hip is jut out to one side. "Okay, so the thing is that I don't know how I got here in the first place, which means I don't know how to get back. And since you clearly already know that I'm here, that means you either help me get back to my time or you can be my guinea pig while I try out the memory spell I glanced at last week."

"The first option," he says, with very little hesitation.

"Probably a good decision," she says. "I really did only glance at that memory spell."

He rolls his shoulders back. "Since you already know mine, what's your name?" And at seeing the reluctance briefly pass over her features, he tailors his question. "Doesn't have to be your real name. Just something I can call you."

The girl lifts her chin. "Bella."

* * *

 **A/N: Now, how's _that_ for a meet-cute, am I right?**

 **If you've been on Facebook over the last week, you might have caught my contemplation about making this arc into alternating Ella and Anthony POV and I think I reached a decision that we'll all be very happy with. As much as I would like to stick to the symmetry of the previous arcs, the truth is that there are things that _only_ Anthony would be able to tell us and it would be too awkward - and complicated - to work Ella into those situations without disrupting the space-time continuum. Boom. That's right, I worked _space-time continuum_ into this, because why the hell not? Anyway, expect alternating POV for part 8.**

 **The removal of my wisdom teeth was - as you might have guessed by how long it took me to summon the will to sit at the computer to finish this thing - about as horrifying as you might expect. 10/10 _would not do again_.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	105. part 8: 3: the blueberry house

**three**

 **the blueberry house**

* * *

Any other day, _time travel_ could have been safely filed under Things Ella Will Never Do, because on any other day, even the notion wouldn't have crossed her mind. She's not a big picture thinker; for Ella, it's always been about the day-to-day challenge of survival, so much so that the fanciful idea of going back and fixing things would never, ever occur to her. Any other day, all of that would stay true.

Any other day but today - the day Ella _did_ the unthinkable and traveled back in time by almost three years. By complete accident, to boot.

And of course - _of course_ \- who would be the one to find her but the very person with whom she'd been so unimaginably angry? Somehow, Ella had gone from raging in the forest over the revelation of her parentage and the totality of the hag's creepy-stalker-tendencies and the mind-rattling entirety of whatever Anthony had been lying about - she had gone from there to waking up to the literal face of her temper tantrum. Anthony Masen's eighteen-year-old face, free of scruff and with no scar over his brow and with eyes free of the flecks of green that denote his alpha werewolf status, had been the sight to greet her once she came-to.

She's in 2015.

If not for the way that Anthony _definitely_ doesn't recognize her, she might not believe it.

But he doesn't know her face, not the way she knows his, and in the wake of that realization, all of her anger toward him is banked, leaving enough room for other epiphanies to steam through her mind. No wonder Anthony circa 2018 had been lying to her about - well, probably more than she could ever properly know. He knew. He'd known _all along_ exactly who Ella was, because even with the impulse decision to say her name is _Bella_ , Anthony Masen is no idiot.

He's probably the most cunning person she's ever met. A hundred little clues fall into place as she looks at the youthful face of the man she knows, an assortment of features still soft and bereft of all the sternness she can only now place. She thinks of all the weird ways he's reacted to her in the past year, the way he'd _stared_ at her and the way he was _there_ right when she needed him and the way he _handled_ her in all the right ways.

Except for the lying, of course, but then this is a secret he'd been keeping for three years. Does it even count as a lie? The part of her that isn't flabbergasted by this entire debacle aches for him, a keen twinge between her ribs, because the burden of keeping something _this big_ quiet for so long is unfathomable.

Ella looks at him now, with his burnt toffee curls longer, a riot that shags into his face, and the quiet curiosity glimmering in his eyes when he meets her gaze patiently - and she thinks, _The tables have turned, Anthony Masen_.

Now Ella is the secret-keeper.

Because it's more than apparent to her that if Anthony knew her back in 2018, then her coming back to 2015 had already happened, which means it's, like, a time loop. Or something. She tilts her head, privately thinking back on Peter's enthusiastic _Back to the Future_ rants, of which there had been many, and wonders if it's possible to fuck things up so badly that she actually erases herself from existing. Or does that only work if she meets her own parents? Had Peter ever waxed poetic about other time traveling theories? Probably. She's just so _tired_ right now. Almost too tired to stand.

Probably from the spontaneous time travel. Really saps the energy, that.

It's a good thing, then, that Ella had sent Raven to scout out a potential place to crash for the time being - and that Raven is sending a distinct feeling of triumph over their bond.

Ella's shoulders slump forward ever so slightly in relief. "Oh, thank…whatever deity is laughing at me right now," she mutters. It's a bone-deep weariness that she has to grit her teeth through as she steps forward, shaking hands buried deep in the pockets of her jacket; it's a implacable instinct to keep her weakness hidden, even around someone who knows her. Maybe especially then, because she might not be mad at _this_ Anthony and she might understand why _that_ Anthony lied, but her trust in him is still damaged.

Maybe not irreparably, though.

"Where are you going?" Anthony asks the moment he notices that she's moved from her lean against of the trees in the clearing. The same clearing she'd disappeared from in 2018, the same clearing where she'd _mysteriously_ found Merlin's athame - something else to think on.

Ella tilts her head at the modicum of concern in his voice and she glances at him from beneath her lashes. He's frowning at her, something oddly _open_ about him at this age, something less reserved. It takes her a moment to place it, but it's the lack of weight on his shoulders. The Anthony she knows seems content to carry the weight of the world; this one has yet to do so. She wonders what changes him, wonders if maybe it's _this_.

A single brow raises. "I'm not sleeping in the forest," she says. "Raven just verified that I place I know is unoccupied. It'll do for now until I figure out how to get back, keep me from being seen by anyone else."

His unmarred face presses into thoughtfulness. "Alright. That's probably for the best." He pauses, lips thinning pensively. "But if you're trying to remain hidden, then…is there anything you can do about the massive mark you've left on this clearing? You're in pack territory and someone's going to notice the scent of magic."

"Good point," she admits. Inhaling deep, she summons the dregs of magic from within, careful not to tap into ley lines that she hasn't _actually_ connected to - and _wow_ , that is something that she's going to have to be careful about so she doesn't give herself away - and does the simplest version of the masking spell she knows, effectively erasing her scent from the clearing. After a second thought, she does the same spell on herself so that she isn't trailing her scent through the forest, and on Anthony, even though he winkles his nose at the distaste of neutralizing his own scent. "How's that?"

"Fucking weird," he says flatly.

She shrugs, then continues forward, belatedly realizing that Anthony does not move to follow. She stops and turns back to him. "Are you just going to stand there all day?"

"What?"

Ella rolls her eyes. "To reiterate, you already know that I'm here," she says leadingly.

"Yeah, and?"

"You might as well know where I'll be," she tells him plainly. "Don't forget, you're supposed to be helping me. So come help and make sure I don't pass out on the way to the house."

Anthony stares, as if sizing her up. "I don't think you're the fainting type," he says.

Ella's lips twitch. "I'm not usually, but today isn't like other days," she says honestly, surprising herself with her candidness. She's more tired than she thought if her mouth is running away without her. Shaking her head, Ella plods forward, and instead of trying to find her way out of the forest, she follows Raven's lifelink that she is connected to her, a firm silver chain that leads her in the right direction.

Three years doesn't change the Charmstone forest as much as Ella might have thought, but then nature is an immutable force and not even time is enough to combat it. The same cannot be said, however, about the real estate in Charmstone. Coming from the side of the cul-de-sac, Ella cuts through the side yard of a very familiar blueberry-hued house, and looks at the lopsided _For Sale_ sign staked into the front yard, which Raven has selected for a perch.

Ella stops in the driveway, taking a moment to just stare at the house where she will live one day with Carlisle. The blue paint looks duller, the windows dusty and dark, and the metal garage door is a in need of a fresh coat of paint. It's not even a gamble to come here; in 2015, Carlisle is still living in New York and he won't even think to look at this house for another year _at least_. Judging by the looks of it, the house is set to be empty until then, too.

"This is a house," Anthony says unnecessarily.

"Your intellect is dazzling," she jeers as she trudges up the driveway.

He's on her heels as she presses her hand against the front door, pushing just enough magic forward to unlock the door. "So, what, you're just going to squat here?" he asks in dismay.

She looks at him over her shoulder, a flicker of ironic humor passing through her mind as she recalls that he'd said something similar to her when she'd first bunkered down in _The Magic Shop_. "Do you have a better suggestion? I mean, it isn't as if I can stay with you, is it?"

His unmarred brow knits together. "Not really, no."

Ella turns, spreading her hands wide as she gestures to the dark space beyond the foyer. "Didn't think so," she says with a lift of her shoulders. "Besides, don't forget that I'm working with a bit more information than you are. I happen to know who's going to move into this house and when. Believe me, it's not a big deal."

"It's illegal."

She levels him with a dry look. "You might want to remember this: I'm not _terribly_ concerned with legalities in general."

"Duly noted," he mutters, ducking when Raven flies through the door and then shoots the familiar a dirty look. "That bird is out to get me."

"She's not a bird," Ella says with faux brightness, hopefully enough to hide just how exhausted she is, even just a bit. "She's my familiar and her name is Raven."

"You named a raven…Raven."

"Don't judge me. You grow a tail and four paws on command."

To her delight, a faint pink touches the tops of his cheeks. She's never known Anthony to blush; it suits him. "No, I don't."

Ella leans against the wall near the kitchen, uncaring of the peeling wallpaper. "You will," she says. Then she stifles a yawn, blinking rapidly. "Okay, well, as _fun_ as all of this has been, I think it's time for you to skedaddle. I'll call you when I need you."

Anthony starts in confusion. "You don't have my number."

"I don't need it," she says, wiggling her fingers with a spark of silvery energy. "When I need your help, you'll know."

He ducks his head, edging back out the front door. "Right. I'll…see you later, then."

Ella inclines her chin with a faint smile, watching as he backtracks down the driveway and back into the forest - and then swings the door shut and locked with magic, slumping against the wall in sheer fatigue. Her limbs are trembling from exhaustion and she finds herself sinking onto the dirty floor with more than a little relief. Her veins are burning, just a bit, and she knows it's because she's running low on magic.

It's almost unthinkable, knowing just how deep the wells of her magic run, and it drives home just how fantastical a feat it is to travel in time. "Am I wrong, or would nobody else be able to do this?" she asks Raven tiredly, lolling her head to the side to catch her familiar's dark gaze.

"I imagine very few individuals over the course of history have managed it," says Raven. "Fewer still by accident."

Ella snorts. "Yeah. And what the hell is up with that, anyway? How did trying to teleport wind up with me three years in the past?"

It's a question that Raven has clearly been mulling over for a while, since she seems to have an answer on the tip of her beak. "I believe there was an unintended interaction between the magical artifacts on your person."

Magical artifacts?

Ah. Ella's personalized magician's glass _plus_ Merlin's athame - somehow - equals time travel.

She digs the knife from the inner pocket of her jacket, feeling the heft in her palm with a heavy weight of serious contemplation. If Raven is right, then this knife might be responsible for getting her back to her own time, too. She feels a sense of revulsion as she looks at it. This _fucking_ knife has already been the involved in one traumatic event in her life, and now it is involved in a second. Pair that with her also being a descendant of Merlin - not just Morgan le Fay - and she's so far in over her head she might as well be drowning.

Ella doesn't know what to do.

For that being such a familiar state of mind, this time it is overwhelming.

Tired as she is, her mind can't help but turn over how sticky her situation is - the implications of it all. Not only does Anthony know that she's been displaced in time, but the hag knew, too. The hag even had the proof in the form of an newspaper. With a turn of her stomach, Ella realizes that _this_ must have been when she came onto the hag's radar, meaning Ella indirectly caused the hag's obsession with her in the first place.

Who else knows her from 2015? She can't think of anyone off the top of her head - at least, not for certain. If Anthony kept the secret, it's entirely possible that others did, too. But that doesn't mean she can't be careful about how she operates, here. Caution in a healthy dose.

Ella manages to muster enough energy to pull herself around the first floor, pulling old curtains closed to make sure that she isn't seen, and then she settles onto the floor. She falls into a deep, deep state of rest - not so much sleep as it is a state of recharging herself while Raven watches over her.

Her last thought before she drops off is, _It's nice to be back in the blueberry house_.

* * *

 **A/N: Hopefully this answered _some_ questions, at least some of the important ones like _how_ and _who_. Moving along.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	106. part 8: 4: hear you me

**four**

 **hear you me**

* * *

Arms folded behind his head, Anthony sighs at his bedroom ceiling while he reclines in his bed, awake because sleep is eluding him. For once, it's not because either of his siblings are filling the house with unwanted noise; it's just after dawn and far too early for Bree to blare music from her room or for Riley to incessantly run lines from _Into the Woods_. It's not even because of his mother's most recent lecture sinking deep into his brain to guilt him into whatever action it is she wants him to take. No, this time his sleeplessness is of his own making.

If he didn't possess such righteous control over his wolf, he might have whined sub-vocally in protest, like he did when he was a pup - a child.

He can't stop thinking about her, the girl in the woods with the magic and silver tongue. Bella, the self-described time traveler, who is currently squatting in a house in which she will one day live and who didn't let him see her exhaustion, not even for a second, not even when he could clearly smell it on her, dousing her clean citrus scent with a tinge of sour melon right before she'd erased any trace of herself with magic. It was weird for the wolf to smell something but not be able to find a visual confirmation of it, and it left him feeling off-kilter by the impressiveness of her self-containment.

And it's _stayed_ with him, that glimpse of the steel in her spine, that spark of _something_ in her gaze - a challenge, maybe, or the first inkling of rebellion. A fierce sort of independence, like grit between the teeth. Anthony has never met anyone like that. Not really. Nobody who emulated it so completely, at least. If Bella has any vulnerabilities, then they must be buried so deep they never see the light of day.

He huffs, sitting up and pounding the bottom of his fist against his pillow. He keeps seeing her damn face in his mind's eye - that jut of her chin that made him think twice about what his nose was telling him - and _then_ he thinks about the empty, dusty house he'd left her in.

God, but he doesn't want to be thinking about her. Anthony can see the writing on the wall and that writing is clearly saying that Bella is _trouble_. How could she be anything _except_ trouble? He should stay far away, focus on his own problems, and yet thoughts of her have kept him up tonight.

He'd rather be sleeping. Really.

Feeling rather aggrieved - and knowing full well that it will be impossible to get to sleep - Anthony rises from his bed, ruffling his hair as he opens the door to the hallway, resigned to starting the day. However, his destination of the bathroom he shares with the wonder twins is waylaid once he catches the barest threads of conversation downstairs. He pauses, foot raised right over the section of hardwood that's creaked under weight ever since once of Bree's ill-advised childhood adventures.

Anthony eases his weight onto the balls of his feet, creeping carefully along the wall just by the stairs. The voices sound like they're near the front of the house, not the rear, and he feels confident enough in this assessment to continue down the stairs, air held tight in his lungs as he remains as silent as he possibly can. Being on the same level, hidden from view by the wall that separates the backstairs attached to the kitchen and the rest of the house, Anthony can more easily identify the voices.

It's his mother and Renata, the best tracker in the pack. They're talking about the wolfsbane scent again, and since it's early enough that God himself wouldn't be caught awake, he guesses the situation is pretty serious.

"…trail is so strange," Renata says urgently. "It bobs and weaves, skips over entire areas entirely. I'll be tracking a mile south, and then for dozens of yards the scent will drop off - no rivers, no wind shifts, nothing to explain it. And then it'll turn up again, heading perpendicular again."

"They're squaring off the town," his mother says grimly. "Creating a perimeter."

"And using something new, too." Renata hesitates. "When the scent drops off…it doesn't…there's a different scent there, beneath all the gunpowder and human musk. They might be packing wolfsbane, but they've got something else, too. Something that smells of smoke, but something they don't use near as often."

"Any trace of either that you've found?"

"No. They don't _leave_ anything tangible. Just the scent."

"They're advanced," another voice rumbles.

Anthony closes his eyes briefly.

Uncle Marcus is in on this, too? Militant, hard-lining, pack enforcer Uncle Marcus, who his mother relies on to do the unsavory business that she cannot bring herself to perform? Uncle Marcus who makes bodies disappear and who looms beyond his mother's shoulder when she's trying to send a message to another alpha? Uncle Marcus who took one look at Anthony on the cusp of puberty and offered to train him in being a left hand, because apparently Anthony "has the capacity for what the job requires" and who slyly continued to feed Anthony tips of all sorts even after his mother expressly blocked that path from Anthony's reach?

The situation with the hunters sniffing around peaceful territory is worse than he thought if Uncle Marcus is getting involved. His mother must really be concerned.

(The last time Uncle Marcus was directly involved in pack business, it'd been because another pack was encroaching none-too-politely on the Charmstone territory and turning humans - regardless of them being potentials or not - with exactly zero finesse. Anthony had been sixteen. He'd seen Uncle Marcus do unspeakable acts of violence then nonchalantly wipe the blood of his claws, and wondered why the hell his uncle thought him capable of doing the same.)

"These aren't your average power-hungry, gun-toting bigots," Uncle Marcus continues blithely. "These hunters are trained. They know our weaknesses and our strengths and they know how to provoke us. Sending your little tracker after them is playing right into their hand, Liz."

"What would you have me do? Indiscriminately kill humans in the name of pack protection before they've done anything blatantly against us?"

"Why wait for them to strike?" Uncle Marcus counters. "Rid yourself of the problem before it becomes a problem. They're on _our_ territory-"

"Please, Marcus. Pack law is one thing," his mother mutters irritably. "There are other laws that supersede ours and you know it."

Uncle Marcus makes a derisive noise. "The Coterie? Tell me how much you love that useless bureaucracy when half your pack is dead to the silver bullets and wolfsbane of those hunters. See how much you appreciate the red tape when your holding funeral rites."

"The supernatural community has The Coterie for a reason," his mother says, but it sounds like something that she's just parroting back, like it's something she's heard and that she thinks sounds right.

It's the kind of thing that Anthony wants to rail against. That's his problem, of course. Anthony always wants to ask _why_ , and maybe that's what Uncle Marcus saw in him - the kind of savagery that comes from questioning what everyone else accepts as point of fact. All his life, Anthony has heard about The Coterie being this great organization that keeps the supernatural world safe from the other six billion people on the planet, but he hasn't ever seen the proof. Any time something in Charmstone went belly-up - and it always did, the town being a hub of supernatural power built right into the land - the town took care of it themselves, somehow.

His mother, though, she likes her order. She likes things _just so_. And so it is with no room for argument that her voice shivers with the power of the Alpha of the Masen pack. "We'll continue as we have been. Watch. Try to figure out what they're here for and ward them off. Peaceably. Is that understood?"

Renata agrees, a meek thing that Anthony can just imagine is accompanied by a bowed head, but Uncle Marcus isn't so quick to fall in line. "I have a pregnant mate at home and two more kids tucked into their beds right now," he intones. "The moment I feel that they're in danger, we both know your alpha order will fall right off my shoulders and then I'll be free to deal with these assholes the way we both know I should."

His mother's voice is soft when she replies. "If that happens, brother, I wouldn't have you do anything else."

It's as much of a concession as anyone could hope to win from Elisabeth Masen and Uncle Marcus knows this, so he gruffly agrees to the terms before he leaves as silent as he probably arrived - as silent as he taught Anthony to be right beneath his mother's nose.

Renata hesitates though, walking to the door before stopping, the soles of her shoes squeaking against the floors. "Alpha? How much danger are we in, really?"

"We will be fine, Renata. Go home. Get some sleep. You've earned it." But when Renata is gone, his mother's voice comes again and it is quiet, almost too quiet for Anthony to hear from his hidden location on the other side of the house. "I hope we'll be fine."

Anthony presses his lips together, waiting until he can hear the door to his mother's office close before daring to breach the kitchen. He feels heavier having overheard this conversation, especially knowing that his mother's strong front isn't nearly as resolved as she wants her betas to think.

(Inexplicably, he thinks that Elisabeth Masen could take a lesson or two from the mysterious Bella, who somehow managed to lie convincingly with her entire being - even before the magic, really.)

Even though he's missing pieces of information, Anthony is wise enough to err toward Uncle Marcus' judgment. The safety of the pack isn't guaranteed, no matter what his mother says or intends. Something is brewing in Charmstone.

A humorless snort escapes him. Well. It's about time for a new crisis, isn't it? It's only been six months since the last crisis.

(And later, much later, Anthony will marvel at the fact that he'd ever thought six _months_ was too short a time between town-wide crises - one day, after the awakening of a certain magician, Charmstone being in trouble will become a very, _very_ common occurrence. He'll miss these relatively peaceful times.)

Guilt churns in his stomach.

He knows his mother is right, on some level; it should be him having that conversation with his alpha, not Renata. _Anthony_ should be the one making reports, getting involved in the safety of his family, and he's been spending his time brooding over going to college.

There are more important things at stake. He'd lost the bigger picture.

Anthony rounds the kitchen island, then, intent on rummaging through the fridge for non-perishables - but he halts in his step. The layout of the kitchen is such that it caters to the large pack-wide gatherings that happen a few dozen times a year; at some point, the wall that had originally been the living room had been knocked out to expand the dining room into an extremely large expanded kitchen, including a second island with a sink and oven, and a wide table near the back door. A table that, incidentally, cannot be seen from the back stairs.

A table where his father is sitting, mid-way through tying his running shoes onto his feet, and looking up at Anthony with a distinctly unimpressed expression. Edward Anthony Sr., the all-human husband of an alpha werewolf, has always been the parent that Anthony _wanted_ to make proud - not because he was obligated by pack hierarchy, but because he is all-too aware of how fragile the human life is. Already, even though they are the same age, Edward looks ten years older than his wife; one day, the same thing will happen to Riley and he will no longer match his twin.

Humanity is a different kind of damnation in a family full of werewolves.

Edward Anthony Sr. has never let it be a reason to prevent him from being a good parent to his children, though, and for that reason, a denial rises on Anthony's lips before he can even think about shutting himself up. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop. It just happened."

"It just happened," his father repeats, then nods. "Yes, I can see how that might have happened, considering you just spent the last five minutes tilting your ear to the front of the house."

Anthony winces, just slightly.

His father sighs. "At least you have the good grace to look guilty. Your sister, on the other hand, is somehow entirely without shame, and by this point would already be offering to share what she's heard."

Anthony clears his throat. "Well, you did name her after the only grandparent that attended Woodstock."

"If that's you making a crack about your sister living up to her name, well…you come by your wit honestly." His father grins, the same lopsided smile that Anthony sees in the mirror, and claps his hands onto his thighs, standing with a pop in his bad knee, the one he blew out during high school football. "You're up early, kid. What gives?"

He scratches behind his ear. "Couldn't sleep."

"Ah," Edward sighs. "I know what this is about."

Schooling his expression - because he certainly hopes his father doesn't know what, or _who_ , has kept him up all night - Anthony cocks his head to the side. "You do?"

Edward pats his shoulder. "Sure do. Kid, let me tell you, I've seen that look on my own face before," he says. "Hell, I'll probably be sporting that look again soon."

Anthony starts to shake his head, but his father jostles his shoulder.

"Now, listen, I know your mother is a tough woman. She's got it in her mind about what's right and what should be done, and for you, being in your position, it must be harder than it is for your siblings. Your mother's got a vision for your future and I know you don't exactly agree with it," says his father, much to his relief.

"Yeah, it's…been difficult." Anthony pauses. "I don't know if I'm ready for…anything."

Edward lifts his brows. "That's because your brain is still undeveloped. You don't know who you are yet," he says matter-of-factly. "But let me tell you this: college is about finding yourself."

Anthony blinks. College? His father thinks he's been worrying about college, not about the upcoming alpha trials that he's being pushed into or the duties to the pack that he's been willfully shirking. Understandable, all things considered.

Edward takes his silence as an opportunity to offer advice. "Take it from a man who's been married to your mother for twenty-five years, son. It's easier to ask forgiveness than permission."

Anthony turns his head sharply. "What?"

"You know," his father says conversationally. "Most college degrees share a lot of the same pre-requisite classes before you even touch the ones that are relevant to your degree and those classes typically take about, oh, two years or so. I think two years is more than enough time to figure out what it is you _really_ want to do, don't you?"

Anthony stares at his father. "You're saying I should…"

Edward pats his shoulder again. "Go take some classes, appease your mother's wishes to see you in college, but don't declare a major before you're certain about it. When the time comes, you let me worry about your mother."

Tension unwinds between his shoulder blades. "That's a great idea, Dad. Thanks."

Edward winks. "Anytime, kid."

And as Anthony fills one of those reusable shopping bags with fresh fruit and bread, he thinks that at least one of his problems has been solved. Now, for the others.

* * *

 **A/N: Kind of love this chapter a lot. So many fun characters. So much back story. So many ways to understand Older!Anthony now!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	107. part 8: 5: come as you are

**five**

 **come as you are**

* * *

There's a werewolf at the door, one that she's more familiar with than she likes. In the future, that is. The werewolf hovering on the other side of the front door, while bearing the same whipcord lupine-gold lifeline, is not the _same_ werewolf she knows. For one, Anthony in 2018 wouldn't be nearly as indecisive, spending a solid five minutes just standing on the porch, which is more annoying than anything else.

Because Ella isn't tied to the Charmstone ley lines anymore - she feels removed from them and their disjointed layout, recognizing that someone's already been frolicking in the natural energies - that means she also doesn't have the luxury of setting up the kind of wards that make it easier to sleep at night. Instead of the Fort Knox fortification she's used to, Ella had to dial back the wards she placed around the blueberry house; a single ward to deter unwanted visitors from the house, flimsy and powered with just enough juice that she notices when someone passes through. It's actually kind of a pain in the ass, all things considered, because it means that _Ella_ is having to be vigilant _and_ subtle enough that she hopes she doesn't draw attention to herself.

And for Ella, underpowering _anything_ is a real kick in the teeth. A tricky one, at that.

She crosses her arms over her chest, eyes narrowed at the front door, and frowns. Six minutes now and he still hasn't knocked. She isn't too sure about this eighteen-year-old Anthony Masen - it's like he hasn't really settled into his skin.

Ella can't say that she doesn't know the feeling. Sighing, she flicks her hand to open the door, magic moving sluggishly through her body; she's definitely not at full strength yet, probably won't be for a few more days. It's too bad she doesn't have access to Carlisle's magic all-healing tea, because she could use a cup or twelve.

On the porch, Anthony startles ever-so-slightly at the suddenness of the door popping open, his heavy brow rising a bit. He's dressed for the warm weather, a snug gray t-shirt and scruffy cargo shorts hanging low on his hips, curly hair ruffled away from his forehead and cheeks warmer than the rest of his face, like he ran in the forest.

Her lips curl into a smirk. "Honestly, I have to say that I wasn't expecting to see you so soon. And I thought I would be the one seeking you out," she adds, eyes flicking down to the canvas bag held in his loose grip. She feels a flash of surprise. "You came bearing gifts."

"Provisions," he corrects swiftly, lifting his chin to the empty house behind her. "Figured the cupboards would be bare."

"Very thoughtful," she says. But instead of the sardonic tone she was aiming for, her words come out gentler, nearly _genuine_ , and she's almost horrified by it. Because before she'd been mad at him and then not mad at him, the only thing Ella felt toward Anthony was a sense of dependability and trust in his ability to do what needs to be done. There was no _fondness_ then and there certainly shouldn't be any _fondness_ now, but there it is - in her voice, shocking the hell out of her.

 _It must be because he's younger_ , she reasons to herself as she steps back from the door to let him inside the dusty, barren house. It's a shitty excuse, one that doesn't hold up because they're the same age at the moment and even when Anthony was three years her senior, she wasn't ever _intimidated_ by him.

Admonishing herself for her inane thoughts, Ella scans the cul-de-sac to make sure nobody has seen them and then closes the door, moving to lean against the archway in the kitchen. Anthony is unloading the haul of groceries he'd brought with him, which mostly consists of a lot of fruit and crackers and beef jerky.

A can of soup appears from the bag and he turns to show her the Campbell's label with an inquisitive look. "I don't suppose you have a pot to cook this in," he states, glancing around at the kitchen.

Ella snorts indelicately. "It won't kill me to eat right from the can. I've definitely eaten worse," she tells him, thinking about the cold winter living on the streets of New York and all of the shameful memories of eating out of garbage cans that she'd pushed far, far back into her mind. Her hand ghosts over her stomach with a phantom pang of hunger. It's been a long time since then and she still hasn't forgotten what it feels like, the kind of desperation that hunger inspires.

That was before magic, though. And Ella has no intention of ever letting herself be reduced to that street urchin ever again. With that firmly in mind, she meets Anthony's skeptical glance with a confident one of her own, stepping forward to peer into the bag to see what remains.

"No water?" she wonders.

"Shit," he mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Forgot. It's my first time aiding a time traveling witch…"

Her shoulders lift in a careless shrug. "That's fine. Conjuring water is an old hat trick, one of the first that I learned," she shares, somewhat consolingly. And then she grins sharply. "I'm not a witch, by the way. You're a bit off the mark."

His mouth pulls into a discontented frown. "No, I guess you aren't." He pauses expectantly, and when she doesn't elaborate, he rolls his eyes. "What, am I supposed to guess?"

"You'd never guess right. I'm something pretty rare," she says. Of course, magicians aren't rare for lack of trying, or at least le Fay magician's aren't. She doesn't know about magicians related to Merlin - aside from herself - but she can only assume that The Order of Mordred is also hell-bent on eradicating Merlin's descendants, too. The fact that The Order even exists would suggest that descendants of Mordred are strong in number. Still, she imagines that only true nerds would have ever heard about -

"Rare?" Anthony repeats thoughtfully. His eyes, like amber whiskey poured over mint-ice, brighten infinitesimally after a moment. "You're a magician, right?"

Ella stares at him _. Stares_ , because she isn't so uncouth as to gape, but it's a near thing.

 _"_ Christ, but that explains the time traveling. And the lack of incantation," he adds as an afterthought. "I thought magicians were myths."

For a moment, Ella desperately wants to call Raven back from her hunt, feeling so incredibly wrong-footed that she had ever assumed Anthony wasn't a _complete_ surprise in so many different ways. True, she's often seen him in the presence of books and she knows that he's an English major, but Anthony in 2018 is so hushed about his business that, by extension, he's also kept a tight lid on how smart he is.

And apparently he's very smart.

Internally, her entire estimation of Anthony shifts about ninety degrees - he has more layers than she thought. Layers she could take advantage of, probably, now that the opportunity was ripe for the taking.

Eying him, Ella palms a bright red apple and leans her hip against the counter. "As you can see, we're not a myth," she says lightly. Rolling the apple between her hands, she looks up at Anthony with consideration. "You know, I have no idea how I got here. I mean, aside from it being an accident and a teleportation spell gone awry, I can only guess how I ended up three years in the past. And I don't really like the idea of trying to recreate that accident to try to get home. It's, like, probably a miracle I landed in the forest with all my limb in tact."

Sensing the shift in their conversation, Anthony stands taller. "Somehow this involves me?"

"You obviously like books, otherwise you would have never guessed what I am."

"I read a little," he mutters.

Ella twists her lips. "Believe me, I know about your reading habits."

"You do?"

Ella ignores his question. "I need you to get a book for me," she says, turning the apple in her palm again. "Well, more like I need you to get a lot of books for me. They'll be in libraries on campus. I never did figure out how any of the books are sorted, so it'll take some searching, but all of the magical books are in the basements….And thinking on it, any non-magical books mentioning theories of time travel would be good, too-"

Anthony holds a hand up. "Wait, you said campus."

Ella nods, frowning at him. "I did. What, have you not used any of the Viridity libraries?"

He clears his throat. "I haven't started college yet."

"Yet," Ella echoes. "But…you _are_ starting college? You'll be a freshman, right?"

"When I sign up for classes," he confirms.

She smirks up at him again. "It's not like I'm in any hurry to get those books, what with time travel being what it is. Just get the books for me when you go sign up for classes and bring them here."

"Why can't you go get the books?"

Ella takes a bite out of the apple. "I'm keeping a low profile," she says. "Also, I'm not a student at Viridity in 2015, so the wards around campus won't recognize me and that will cause complications that I can't afford. You'll just have to do the footwork for me."

Anthony sighs, pulling his hand down the side of his face. "Alright, fine."

Ella smiles. It's not so sharp this time.

Is it odd that she likes this eighteen-year-old Anthony more than twenty-one-year-old Anthony? At least this Anthony is easier to handle - though she suspects that won't be the case for _too_ long, given what she knows about his future self.

(But then she remembers that Anthony in the future is also prone to turning full-wolf and howling mournfully up at the moon - and she wonders what it is that made him do that in the first place.)

* * *

 **A/N: These two are so fun!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	108. part 8: 6: the prom queen

**six**

 **the prom queen**

* * *

"Do my eyes deceive me, or do I really see Anthony Masen _willingly_ standing in a line to sign up for classes?"

Anthony half-turns toward the smooth, orotund feminine voice at his elbow and stifles a sigh as he locks gazes with dark blue eyes framed by flawless eye make-up. He's in no mood to lock horns with his best friend today, not when his presence on the Viridity campus is so reluctant and not when its so goddamn early in the morning. It's his own fault for procrastinating, though, which is why he's stuck behind twenty other slackers who are signing up for classes last minute.

"Lillian," he greets blandly. "Go be nosy somewhere else, I'm busy."

"What are you doing here?" Lillian peers around the oblong room of milling people with interest, turning back to him expectantly.

That's the thing about Lillian Hale - she always expect people to fall in line, or otherwise be crushed beneath her stiletto heel. Even though Lillian is his first kiss - his first everything, really - they didn't work out for exactly that reason. She's too demanding for him, too high-maintenance, and they're better off as friends. Probably for the best. He's known her since she went by Rosalie, before her parents divorced and she, in turn, divorced herself from the name her father gave her, choosing instead to be called by her middle name. There's so much history between them - twelve years worth of memories - and their fleeting relationship was a disaster that was hastily dodged.

"What does it look like, Prom Queen? I'm registering for the fall semester," he returns sullenly, moving forward in the line. Resigning himself to her presence, Anthony lolls his head to the side to stare down at her with droll humor. "Better question is what are _you_ doing here? I distinctly remember you bragging about having all of your paperwork in weeks ago."

Predictably, Lillian ignores his questions. She flicks her blonde hair over her shoulder, then raises an imperious brow. "Well, you can't blame me for being so shocked, can you? Not after you spent half of our senior year agonizing over whether you would go to college or not," she retorts. She peers at him with keen interest. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened."

 _Except for a time traveling magician who I've unwittingly struck a deal with,_ he corrects silently. Not that he could tell anyone about Bella. He's read _A Wrinkle In Time_ and _The Time Machine_ and _Thrice Upon a Time_ \- and one does not fuck with the timeline. Ever. It's bad enough that Bella _has_ traveled back in time. He isn't about to add onto that heaping pile of shit by opening his mouth.

No, he's going to do what he agreed to do; help Bella get home as quickly and quietly as possible. And to do that, he needs to get the books that Bella was talking about, and to get the books, he has to be an actual student at the university. It's a boon that in helping the time traveler, its forcing the kind of circumstances that make it possible to partially appease his mother.

(But, God, will his life forever be dictated by women?)

Lillian draws his attention again, poking at his bicep with one perfect candy apple red nail. "The last time we talked - two days ago, mind you - I recall you being dead-set on doing the exact opposite of what you're doing now. So, what changed?"

Anthony sighs, trying to find _something_ to tell her that she'll believe so she'll leave him alone about it. Something mostly true. It's never worth the effort to _really_ lie to Lillian; she's too smart and figures the truth out in the end. "Advice from my dad," is the explanation that he settles on.

"I see," she says, but Anthony's seen that look in her eyes before. There's no way the topic is shelved because there's no way she's satisfied with his vague response. Still, Lillian is tactful enough to recognize that they're in a public space, so she follows after him as he moves along the line and keeps him company. "Have you seen Vera?"

"No."

Coral lips slip into a smooth smile and she drops her voice into a low whisper. "And does your nose tell you?"

"Jesus," he mutters, shooting her a disgruntled glance. "Really, Lillian?"

"What?" she asks with a roll of her eyes, hand waving negligently to the people around them. "I've known you since you were six. Don't forget that I was the unfortunate witness to more than one pubescent partial shift."

Anthony could never forget; he hadn't been able to look her in the eye for an entire month when they were thirteen after one particularly mortifying moment. "That's not the point," he tells her sternly.

Lillian rolls her eyes with a toss of her head. "Afraid someone will overhear? Please. It's the worst-kept secret in the entire town that Viridity isn't attended by - how to put this delicately - strictly _normal_ students."

"Then why are you here?" he challenges. "A completely human former student body president of Charmstone High and the reigning Prom Queen pursuing a law degree with a bunch of creatures most sane people believe are myth? Explain that one to me again."

Lillian's dark blue eyes narrow frostily, an angry flush rising on her cheeks. Not for the first time, he thinks that she's too pretty by half, the kind of obvious beauty that anything with a pulse lusted after at least once - himself included.

(Another face flashes through his mind, pale silver eyes and warm bronze skin, unusually diametric features cobbled together to form an arresting beauty - made all the better by the utter cunning and defiance right beneath the surface. Even just recalling it makes his stomach flip over itself.)

"I told you already," Lillian is saying sharply, maybe a touch too defensive. "After a very detailed pro and con list, I decided that Viridity ultimately offered more than any of the other schools I applied to, including the Ivy Leagues. That's all there was to it."

Anthony strongly suspects that this is, in fact, not all there is to it. Knowing what he does about her parents, particularly about her father blipping in and out of his children's lives and her mother's workaholic tendencies, Anthony thinks that Lillian's decision to attend Viridity has more to do with her little brother than anything else. Jasper is fifteen now and a sophomore in high school, but he's still just a kid. If Bree and Riley were left to fend for themselves because his parents were too wrapped up in their own shit to notice, Anthony would make the same choice.

It's impressive because Lillian is human and doesn't possess the same pack mentality that pulls at familial ties - more so because she's stubbornly, even humbly, not acknowledging what she's doing, even though it's changing the entire outlook of her future. Maybe even especially because for as long as he's known her, Lillian has had Harvard posters plastered across her room, the ultimate goal that fueled all of her ambition until her family fell apart and that ambition was redirected.

Anthony relaxes his shoulders, hands in his pockets. "Alright, I believe you."

"I don't _need_ you to believe me," she replies haughtily.

"Okay."

She taps her foot twice, looking at the length of the line again. "God, this is taking forever. How long have you been here? This is ridiculous."

"I agree. I could have been sleeping."

"This late?" Lillian makes a show of looking at the delicate silver watch on her wrist with her brows raised. "It's eleven in the morning. Don't tell me you're still sleeping into the afternoon?"

"Leave the lecturing to my mother."

"Gladly," she says. Then, "If you haven't seen Vera, then she must have gotten lost somewhere on campus. I was supposed to meet her here."

They share a look of exasperation for Vera's incredible lack of direction, a running joke between the three of them that Vera participates in with good nature. "Better hurry and find her before the line gets any longer."

Lillian nods in agreement, touching his elbow lightly before she leaves. "Make sure to request the nine o'clock English Composition class so we can all be together."

"Yeah, okay," he agrees.

Lillian smiles warmly. "I am glad that you changed your mind, no matter what it is that _really_ made you rethink your decision. I can't imagine doing this whole college experience without either of my best friends by my side."

"Shucks," he deadpans.

"You're such a jerk," she says fondly. "Want to meet up at Sam's later?"

Anthony shakes his head. "No, I thought I would check out the libraries here. I've, ah, heard they're pretty expansive."

Lillian, well-acquainted with the amount of time that Anthony is capable of spending in a library, accepts his explanation as face-value, which is a relief. He doesn't need her asking questions and looking for reasons to be suspicious. He waits until Lillian has left the building before releasing a slow breath, like he's successfully done evasive maneuvers in fooling Lillian.

He sort of has, in a way. Keeping a secret this big is unbelievably stressful. Even as he's picking out his classes with the registrar, the thought crosses his mind that it's a good thing he won't be living at home anymore so he won't have to worry about carrying Bella's scent back to his mother's inquisitive nose. It'll be one less thing to think about so he can focus on what's really important - getting the time traveler back to her own time.

* * *

 **A/N: Personally, I've always been intrigued by the dynamic between Anthony and Lillian and Lillian's character has so much potential to be dynamic that I wanted to explore that a little bit while we move the plot forward. And yes, Vera will be coming back into play, but a different Vera than the one we've met before - pre-nixie Vera. A harbinger of a different color, if you will.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	109. part 8: 7: four days wide awake

**seven**

 **four days wide awake**

* * *

The hilt of the golden athame flips in her palm, smacking against her skin with a satisfying heft. In the bedroom that is not yet hers, Ella sits cross-legged and examines the knife - her would-be murder weapon, a link to her mother's family, and her best guess as to how she accidentally traveled back in time.

She frowns down at the gleaming blade. It _feels_ old and the construction of it is clearly from a different era, the techniques used to create the knife long forgotten and lost to history; the magic imbued in it, while infinitesimal compared to her own magic, thrums in a discontinuous beat. The magic in the knife chafes against hers just enough that she doesn't particularly like touching it. And yet - Ella hasn't been able to stop herself from touching it, examining it, trying to puzzle out how it got into her possession.

"I don't get it," she says to Raven, who has made a home in the bookcases built into the wall. She flips the athame again, pressing the flat of her thumb against the serrated ridge of the blade, which is unmarred by rust. Merlin's athame is definitely a magical object, preternaturally unmarked by age.

How old are the Arthurian legends that mention Merlin and Mordred and Morgan le Fay? Hundreds of years old? _Thousands_?

And this _freaking_ knife looks like a blacksmith just finished polishing it yesterday. Which can't be true. Because the hag had the knife in 2018, used the blade to slash into Ella's heart, and then it - what, _miraculously_ turned up again in that clearing? And if she brought the damn thing _back in time_ to 2015, then how does the hag get it?

Disgruntled and more than a little confused, Ella heaves out a sigh and stands, shaking the pins and needles from her legs. Although her magic has come back in full force, filling her to the brim with possibility and power, she's still remarkably tired because she hasn't been able to really sleep. A few minutes here and there, interrupted by memories she's spent the last three years trying to bury. Being back in 2015, knowing where her fifteen-year-old self is and what will happen in little over a month, is bringing all of her baggage up to the forefront of her mind.

Every time she slips into slumber, she is assaulted by an image of Duncan's face over hers or the way his hand felt around her throat or the terror in Jane's eyes - and then she can't sleep, swallowed up all over again by guilt and shame.

If she had any access to paper and ink, she'd be putting that restless energy - all that anger and pain - into something productive. As it is, stuck in the past and without her vices, Ella is left with the feeling that she is crawling up the walls. It takes every ounce of her admittedly sparse self-control to not go out and do something impulsive.

Which is why she's taking to studying Merlin's athame.

With very little lucky.

"It's inert," she tells Raven. "Like, I can _feel_ that it's not active right now, but that it _can_ be active. I just don't - I remember how hot it was when the hag used it, like it was going to melt away my flesh. Left bad enough scars, didn't it? And it…recognizes me, almost. Maybe."

"Magical objects often have memories," Raven says reassuringly.

Ella flips the knife, over and over, watching the arc of the blade pensively. She shakes her head. "I've tried to activate it, push my magic into it and make it do…whatever it was designed to do. But nothing," she sighs. "It's a ceremonial knife, right?"

"The design is similar to others that are used in ceremonies, yes."

"But…I wasn't in the middle of a ceremony when the stupid thing appeared and brought me here."

"You were emotional, though," Raven counters. "We do not know what the athame's original purpose was, but twice it has reacted to the turbulence of your emotions and caused your magic to perform unimaginable feats."

"Bringing me back to life," Ella says, squeezing her fingers around the hilt as she paces slowly the length of the room. "Time travel."

"Both acts of magic that defy the very laws of nature."

Ella's mouth slants into a humorless smile. "I'm weird, though, and rules apparently don't apply to me. How many other people could possibly be related to _two_ magicians of legend? I mean, I don't even understand my magic most of the time. If I did, I would have mastered teleportation already."

"True, you are more special than we realized," Raven agrees gently. "But you forget that magicians are typically trained by their families from a very young age and you, as an orphan as well as being a late-bloomer, are having to learn as you go along."

"With a lot of fuck ups along the way."

Raven clicks her beak. "You've made more progress than you think you have. It takes time."

Ella transfers the athame to her dominant hand. "Well, it turns out that I have a lot of time, don't I?"

Raven has nothing to say to that, and Ella turns her back to her familiar, testing the weight of the knife in her hand again - before flinging it forward with force tempered by her simmering frustration. The blade embeds itself in the wall at an awkward angle, jutting strangely from the drywall. Ella marches forward, rips the knife out of the wall, and backs up several paces.

She throws the knife again.

Might as well take advantage of her sleeplessness and work out some of her aggression in a way that won't call attention to the whole of Charmstone that a powerhouse magic-wielder is within their borders.

It's probably more satisfying than it should be.

* * *

 **A/N: Wrote this instead of working on homework, because college statistics are _hard_ and the t-test formula is a giant pain in the ass and if I _wanted_ to spend all of my time square-rooting shit by hand, then why would my phone have a calculator to do it for me, hmmmm Professor? Yeah. That's what I thought.**

 **On another note, doesn't Ella just seem the type that would be really good at hustling people in bars by playing darts? Maybe it's just me...**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	110. part 8: 8: inner wolf

**eight**

 **inner wolf**

* * *

The door swings open before he even gets to the porch, which is not as cool to see in real life as it is to read about. He hesitates for a fraction of a second before stepping over the threshold; the door closes quietly behind him, but Bella is nowhere to be found. At least, she isn't downstairs. He can hear her heartbeat upstairs, a steady muffled thrumming that is punctuated by the occasional _twang_ of something cutting through air, followed by a resolute _thud_ and the creaking of the floorboards.

Anthony frowns, glances over his shoulder at the door behind him, and then up at the ceiling. "How the hell did she do that?" he mutters, taking to the stairs with a healthy dose of caution.

When he gets to the landing at the top of the stairs, he pauses to peer into the dim bedroom down the hall, catching the graceful line of Bella's shoulder as it moves - and then he notices that she's throwing a knife at the wall, and his moment of admiration halts in its tracks. There's a few dozen deeply-embedded slashes in the wall, evidence of that knife being thrown again and again for hours. His eyes follow the line of her arm up her neck, the disarray of her short hair a compliment to the warm flush in her cheeks and the deep furrow between her brows.

Noticing his presence, Bella says, "You know, you always turn up right when I don't expect you." And without pausing to even _look_ at him, she pulls the golden knife from the drywall, spins on her heel, and flings it forward again. Her lips turn up in a grim sort of smile, hand gesturing to the distance between the last two knife throws. "I'm getting better at this. I could join a circus, or something. Knife throwing is a thing, right?"

"Sure, I guess," he replies warily.

Unpredictable. This girl is _unpredictable_.

She turns around, leaving the knife in the wall, with one hand placed on her hip. There are dark shadows beneath her eyes, like she hasn't been sleeping, and something dark twisting in her gaze - a cutting leeriness that Anthony can't relate to, even as he recognizes that she's guarding herself against him.

Distantly, he wonders why she feels the need to do that, why she has this wall of snark and sarcasm and aggressiveness put up all around her like it'll really be enough to protect her from the world. And then, he notices her arms. The shirt she's wearing is dingy from being worn for so many days and short-sleeved and without that leather jacket covering her up, he can see the odd markings on her arms. Like the kind of runic tattoos that he's seen in movies, almost - but there is something off about them, about the way they catch the light and throw shadow - because the marks on her arms aren't _tattoos_. Scarification. That's the word. She has marks scarred into her body, drawn painstakingly onto her skin with raised silvery scar tissue, wrapping all the way around her forearms and down the back of her hands. Even the odd bracelets she wears, chained around the wrist and linked to rings on her thin fingers and glittering like shards of glass, aren't enough to distract from the scars on her arms.

He wants to ask, taken by a sudden unquenchable curiosity, but he holds his tongue. Something about her body language, the way she's carrying her weight and following his gaze, seems like a challenge that he doesn't want to meet.

He's a stranger to her; he doesn't get to ask questions. He wouldn't want to, either, because he suspects the story behind those scars is much darker than he'd like.

So instead, he drops a small duffle bag at his feet. "Found some clothes for you," he says by way of explanation. The clothes are an assortment of clean things he'd swiped from the dryer at home, a few of Bree's jeans and a jacket of Riley's and more than a few of Anthony's clothes - shirts and flannels and a hoodie that he won't miss. Enough to get Bella by until she can get home.

Bella appears genuinely surprised at this, hand dropping from her hip as she stares at the clothes spilling from the faulty zipper. "Are you making this a habit? I'm flattered," she tells him with a faint smile.

"I thought you might, I don't know, want to be clean. Does the water run in this place?"

She quirks a brow, sharply amused. "Are you trying to tell me I stink?"

He shakes his head in denial, an automatic response in counterpoint to the embarrassed heat in his ears. Anthony can't believe he thought this was a good idea, even for a second, but it's too late to backtrack. "No, I just - I have a sister and she has particular hygiene expectations that I think might be universal for other girls. So, I brought some things-"

Bella reaches down to open the duffle, rifling through the other things he'd thrown in with the clothes. "Shampoo, soap - is that a loofa?"

"I can take it back," he says tersely.

She looks up at him, a softness in her expression that he hasn't seen before and that looks alien on features that are usually tight with some unnamable tension. "No, I - I'm sorry, I'm being a bitch and I shouldn't. This is thoughtful of you, so thanks. There's only so much cleaning charms can do. This is great, really," she says with a tilt of her lips. She inclines her chin to the remaining bag on his shoulder, pushing lank hair from her face. "What's in the other bag?"

Anthony swings an old backpack off his shoulder, dropping it onto the floor too. He rolls his shoulder to release the tension from carrying the heavy weight and says, "I brought the books. Think I cleared out everything physicists ever wrote about time travel."

The grey of her eyes brightens to almost a pale blue, flecks of silver glimmering as she pulls the backpack closer. "And spellbooks? Were you able to get into the basements?"

Anthony rubs the back of his neck. "I got into a few of them. Some of the libraries on campus don't have basements, I think."

Bella snorts. "No, all the libraries have basements on campus. It's just that they might be warded against certain creatures."

"Really?"

She puts down one of the thinner books and stands to her full height, which isn't saying much as she's on the smaller side of average and Anthony is probably due for his last growth spurt soon. "Wards can do all sorts of things," she tells him knowledgably, then sighs. "I should have remembered that there are some places you can't get into on campus being a werewolf. Some of those basements have the kind of books that could actually hurt you, like, with written in wolfsbane ink, or something. There's nothing for it, though. One of these books should at least be able to point me in the right direction."

He shrugs noncommittally, trying not to feel like he's let her down, and not sure what to say with this information that _books_ can be dangerous to him. Eighteen years of life, many of them spent with his nose buried in pages, and he's only just now learning that there are things in this world that will do him harm for simply being who - or in this case what - he is. He finds that he doesn't much like the realization, or the blasé way Bella has delivered it, like this is a truth she has long known.

Bella swipes the duffle of clothes from the floor. "Let me get cleaned up so I won't offend your delicate sensibilities, and then you can help me sort through all of the goodies you brought back from the library, okay?"

She doesn't wait for a reply.

Bella goes to the bathroom down the hall and Anthony stands in the middle of the bedroom, not sure what he's supposed to do now. Stand? Sit on the floor?

He checks his watch. Leaving the house to come over here with the books and clothes was supposed to be a quick jaunt before his mother realized he'd gone somewhere an hour before he was supposed to be sitting in on a pack meeting. He hadn't intended to linger and the truth is that he really _can't_ ; Anthony has to be on best behavior, living up to exactly what is expected of him, so that he has some kind of leverage once he settles on a major. Which he is supposed to discuss with his academic advisor after the fall term is over, which is much sooner than he expected.

Anthony steps into the hall, intending to speak through the door. "Hey, I have to-"

The words die in his throat as he realizes that the bathroom door is half-open and that Bella is in the middle of changing into clothes that aren't covered in a layer of grime and dirt. By some miracle - or curse - she hasn't heard him or noticed him and Anthony gets an unintended glimpse of golden-bronze skin, old jeans pooled on the floor and her back arched as she pulls her shirt over her head.

Anthony clears his throat, averting his eyes a few moments too late - her utter lack of awareness has afforded him the opportunity to get an eyeful of the lacey undershirt thing she has on, thick straps and a square neck and cropped right at the enticing dip of her waist and it matches the boyshorts she's wearing. Bella looks good in black. Really good. Heat rises on his neck as his pulse rackets up and he is thankful that she's magic and doesn't have werewolf senses, otherwise she'd be able to tell just how much he likes seeing her like this - his heartbeat and scent are deadgiveaways.

He's eighteen and she's a pretty girl that truly riles his hormones - but there's something about the sharpness of his attraction that is _different_. He can't quite put his finger on what it is. A deeper sense of _other_ that comes with the urge to taste her skin and roll in her scent. Something base, primal -

His wolf likes her.

Sudden tension races up Anthony's spine, like a splash of cold water. The realization is too lucid, but it's there. The human part of himself, the part that is taken by gloom and angst and fever-dreams, finds this bold girl attractive; and the wolf part of himself, the driver of all of his central impulses and the helm of his instincts, likes her too. Which is unique, the kind of thing he's heard his grandparents and cousins talk about at family reunions, the sort of tales they weave for the pups to keep them entertained.

 _When wolf and human are in agreement, then you will know_ , he recalls his grandfather saying so serenely. It's a token of advice that Anthony has never forgotten, because it always meant so much more than just recognizing when wolf and human were in synch. It's about listening to instincts and finding harmony in those instincts to master control.

But he's always known, in the back of his mind, that his grandfather meant it for other things, too.

His wolf likes Bella.

And Anthony - _he_ doesn't know what to do with that epiphany, so much so that his chest tightens in unease for reasons that he can barely sort through. It's not ideal to know this at the moment, not when she's a time traveler and when he's technically under threat of a botched memory spell if he doesn't help her get back to her own time.

She smells of citrus, tangy and sweet, and Anthony has always liked oranges too much.

 _Fuck._

Anthony hurries past the door. "Hey, I can't stay," he says loudly at the top of the stairs.

He isn't counting on Bella's head poking out of the bathroom door, _his_ red-and-black flannel hanging from her fingers. She frowns at him in confusion. "What? You're leaving?"

Anthony looks away hastily. He _does not_ need that mental image of her in his clothes. He really doesn't. "I've, ah, got a thing that I need to get to. So, later."

And then, true to the roots of his forefathers, Anthony executes a hurried Irish exit - he leaves without saying good-bye.

It doesn't deter his wolf, though, which prowls beneath his skin with the kind of knowing that cannot be ignored. The wolf likes Bella. It really is as simple as that.

* * *

 **A/N: This chapter is brought to you by the makers of Swiss Miss Hot Chocolate and the genius who figured out caramel M &M's.**

 **Wasn't that fun? Anthony has just been introduced to the _bralette_ , which is like a low-impact lacey sports bra that comes in all sorts of colors and styles and I, personally, am a huge fan because they're comfortable as fuck. If you haven't tried one, you should, even if it's just in the store!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	111. part 8: 9: a turning page

**nine**

 **a turning page**

* * *

Arms crossed beneath her breasts, Ella stares down at the assorted books spread across the bedroom floor with her brow furrowed in contemplation - and although there are countless texts on the scientific principles behind time travel and spellbooks musing about controlling time, her mind isn't really on the problem at hand.

Once again, she is thinking about Anthony Masen when she should be thinking about something else. It's becoming a habit of sorts, and a frustrating one at that. She just can't seem to help the way her mind inevitably circles around back to him. Almost like a compulsion.

Tearing her eyes away from the unopened books, Ella looks at Raven, who is perched comfortably on the windowsill after having taken Ella's brief shower as an opportunity to hunt her dinner. Now that Ella is clean and Raven is fed, it's time to get back to work, time to get serious about getting home instead of getting _distracted_.

And yet, Ella finds her mouth opening, spilling forth a perplexed tone with a tilt of her head. "That was weird, right? Like, a Peter-level type of awkward that I honestly didn't think Anthony was capable of," she says, toeing the border of bewilderment. "I mean, did you see how weird he was?"

"It was not that strange."

Incredulous, Ella swings her eyes to her familiar. "You saw the same thing I did, right? He ran out of here like his ass was on fire."

"Or like his instincts were," Raven counters.

"What?"

Onyx eyes blink lazily, following Ella's slow motions as she seats herself onto the floor and reaches idly for the topmost book. Raven makes a trilling sound, almost a sound of wry amusement. "Are or are you not currently wearing clothing that is his?"

Ella is wearing a well-worn flannel shirt, a random pick from the bag of clothes that had been brought for her use, and had not given it a second thought until this moment. It's too large for her, of course, and beneath a faint layer of detergent - werewolves use the scentless stuff, according to Peter - the spice of cinnamon and the musk of sandalwood and a hint of what the forest smells like right after cleansing rain clings to the fabric. Not that she's spent _huge_ qualities of time in his personal space, or anything, but she supposes that it isn't completely out of the realm of possibility to assume that the shirt she wears is Anthony's.

She feels a little warm at the thought, and then feels strange for her reaction.

"What does that have to do with anything, you cryptic blackbird?" she asks warily, plucking at the lapel loose around her collarbone.

"He is a wolf," Raven intones.

Ella rolls her eyes. "Yes, that's been well-established."

If a bird could sigh and cast eyes heavenward, than Raven would have done it in that moment, but as it is all she can do is flap her wings at Ella in agitation. "Think, girl! Werewolves are creatures ruled by their instincts and their senses. What do you think it might do to a young werewolf to see a female of breeding age in his clothing?"

A mocking laugh bursts from her lungs as Ella opens the book in her lap, shaking her head at her familiar. " _Breeding age_? Raven, that's so clinical and, truly, a bit disturbing. Even for you."

"And being this obtuse is ridiculous, even for you," Raven retorts immediately.

It's not a tone that she hears often from her familiar and it gives Ella a moment of pause to actually consider - just for a moment - what it is that Raven is implying.

Which - _really_ \- it's unfathomable. Completely nuts, and coming from Ella, who isn't exactly a pillar of mental health, that's saying something.

"You're saying that Anthony, what? Is into me? Interested, like, romantically?" Ella clarifies. She doesn't sputter, because she isn't prone to such exaggerated reactions, but she does feel her breath escape her in a dismayed huff. The denial rises, swift and implacable. "You're - you're so wrong! That can't be right! He's… _Anthony_. He's-"

"He is ally, friend, partner," Raven interrupts smoothly. "He could be lover, as well."

Reeling, Ella can't help but consider the truth of what Raven is saying. And it _is_ true; Anthony has been a reliable ally, he's become a dependable partner that she can count on, and she even sort of considers him a friend. Or at least friend-like. He isn't quite a friend, though, because that doesn't _feel_ like quite the right label for him. But then, he's more than just an ally or a partner, either. He's stepped into so many roles in the time that she's known him - even a shoulder to cry on, as well as being a mystery howling in the woods.

But - lover? Even the mere suggestion makes her heart rabbit in her chest. She's trying _not_ to lie to herself about her emotions, anymore, and so it is with a bleak sense of honesty that she silently acknowledges that she's been attracted to Anthony in the past. Or the future. Or, actually, his future and her past. She's found him interesting; she's had the intense urge to draw him, to capture him on paper to preserve forever, and she can't truthfully say that she's ever felt the desire to do that before.

Attraction is just that, though. It's chemical and fleeting, like her ill-advised turn with Vera under the influence of faerie dust, and any of the other handful of dalliances she's entertained in the past. Never anything serious, never anything that meant anything or compromised her - as silly as it feels to say - virtue. Nothing with anybody that she could trust, because Ella doesn't trust easily, and she certainly won't trust her _body_ with just anyone. A few kisses and some heavy petting with pretty people is attraction.

And attraction isn't anything like what Raven is talking about.

Stubbornly, Ella shakes her head. "You must have eaten a bad seed, or something, because you're talking absolute nonsense."

"Am I?"

"Yes!" Ella says too loudly, too emphatically.

Raven's head tilt-twists side to side. "Perhaps I am," she placates. "Or perhaps you have forgotten a single important moment where you saw this wolf's lifeline do something _quite_ interesting."

Ella stares.

 _He's been familiar to me from the very start in a way that is utterly visceral_ , she recalls, thinking of a tree in the Viridity courtyard and a boy with a paperback book and amber-green eyes staring at her so impassively. And his lifeline, the way it had reached for her and then recoiled, almost as if stung.

Or -

Or as if the very force of his life recognized her, but knew it wasn't the _her_ he knew? Obviously, she knows _now_ that Anthony had known in 2018 that Ella would travel back to 2015, so naturally he would recognize her. But - like - had his _very soul_ been able to tell that the Ella standing in front of him in 2018 was an Ella that didn't know him in 2015?

Ella sits back, dumbfounded. Her heart thuds in her chest, heavy with some unnamable emotion that she can't swallow around. She drops the book onto the floor, trying to wrap her head around this new _thing_ that's been revealed to her - not quite able to tell if she's anxious or elated or agitated or _what_.

She's just feeling _something_ and right now all she knows is that it isn't the denial she'd been prepared to cling to so ardently.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Was it?

* * *

 **A/N: Cue the sound of glass shattering, which is what I imagine happens every time someone has a particularly important realization. Farewell, oblivious Ella - it was fun making you so obtuse, but as we know from the story so far, the truth cannot long be hidden, not even from ourselves and especially no matter how hard we try to ignore it. Now, like Anthony, she's obviously _not_ in all-consuming true love yet. But notice I did write _yet_.  
**

 **Everyone, please send nice thoughts out into the universe for a fellow reader! We're putting out good vibes for you, ducky, so let's hear some good news!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	112. part 8: 10: aptitude

**ten**

 **aptitude**

* * *

Anthony is on edge - nervous, even. A curl of anxiety is growing in the pit of his stomach, completely at odds with the pent-up coil of energy in his muscles that threatens to spring forth. The totality of this wariness had begun the moment his mother decided that the best course of action to suss out the goal of the hunters weaving in and out of their territory is to send an envoy to the nearest pack outside of Charmstone. Ordinarily, that envoy would have just been Uncle Marcus acting in his capacity as his mother's left hand to enforce the peace treaty between the nearest pack.

This is not an ordinary day - in so very many different ways.

Mostly, though, because Uncle Marcus had succeeded in convincing Elisabeth Masen that this was a task that could be a bit more hands-on than usual. Which is why Anthony is buckled into his uncle's vintage pick-up, rolling down the highway toward northern Vermont where the Burlington pack is awaiting their arrival, and trying not to let the nerves get the best of him. It does not help that the realization of his inner wolf being so completely drawn to Bella is fresh on his mind; he'd been late to the meeting with the pack and spent the entire two hours hoping that the scent of his angst would cover any lingering trace of Bella's citrus scent. And then, much to his eternal shock, his mother had _agreed_ with his uncle - _and_ she didn't scold him for his tardiness.

Definitely not an ordinary day.

This will be the first time he has acted in any official capacity for his pack and he feels the weight of that responsibility. This is one of the trials he has to pass to become an alpha; Anthony can't honestly say that diplomacy is a particularly strong skill of his. He's prone to sullen silences and moments of brooding; his communication skills, as Vera has kindly put before, are _a little lacking_. Diplomacy requires a certain gentle touch that Anthony is sure he doesn't possess.

He will fail this trial.

Once the truck has crossed state lines, Uncle Marcus abruptly reaches forward and shuts off the radio, silencing some 80's hair band that Bree probably worships, and downshifts the transmission. Anthony directs an inquisitive stare toward his uncle as the truck veers purposely toward one of the slower lanes. "Thought we had to get there as soon as possible? Something about this meeting being _the utmost importance_?"

"That's a very good impression of Liz," Uncle Marcus praises with a cocked brow. "But I think you and I need to have a chat before we have to deal with that asshat Caius Peri and the Burlington pack. Want to make sure that we're on the same page."

Anthony shifts in his seat, knee thumping against the wood paneling on the bottom of the dashboard. "What page would that be?"

"This is one of the alpha trials."

"That," Anthony sighs, tilting his head back against the seat. "That I already knew. But the reminder is greatly appreciated."

Uncle Marcus snorts. He scrubs a hand across the gruff of his jaw and sucks his teeth. "Do you know why your grandfather chose your mom for alpha, with her being the run and all?" Uncle Marcus wonders out loud, casting a sly glance to Anthony. "I confess that it took me years to figure it out, to see the wisdom in that choice, and I'll tell you right now that it was all about aptitude."

"Aptitude," Anthony repeats blankly.

"Nothing more and nothing less," Uncle Marcus says. "See, when your grandfather was ready to pass the mantle, we'd been in a time of hard-won peace with the other werewolf territories and it made sense to choose a successive leader who would continue that trend. Someone level headed to keep the peace. Only one of the Masen kids fit the bill. Liz has always liked order and procedures, and having been picked on by the pack for being the smallest, the slowest, the youngest…well, you can say she had an appreciation for equality." Uncle Marcus shoots him a serious glance. "Make no mistake about it that equality equals peace. Liz was just what the pack needed, but that was then."

Anthony shakes his head with a frown. "You're saying - what - the pack doesn't need peace now? That's absurd."

Uncle Marcus' tone is grave. "Times are changing. You can scent it in the wind, can't you? That unease in the air, in the people around you? The time for peace is coming to a close. Charmstone is a…very special town, Anthony. It sits on a hub of land that draws the supernatural to it, and while that means that we don't have to hide as much as other packs in territories that aren't so rich in ley lines, it also means that trouble comes sniffing around sooner or later."

"If that's true, then I still don't understand why she picked me," Anthony says firmly. "She could pass the mantle to anyone. She could pass it _to you_."

Uncle Marcus makes a noise of denial, an errant hum that is more or less disinterested. "Don't want it. I was passed over for a reason and I've made my peace with it," he says with a nod. Then, glancing at Anthony again, he says, "There are different kinds of leaders, you know, and there isn't any one right way to do it. Liz likes to delegate, but she also likes to do the _right_ thing - the moral thing - doesn't like to get her hands dirty, which is why I'm here to enforce her will. It works for her leadership style, you understand? But not all packs are led like that. Not everyone has a clearly designated leader and left hand and right hand."

"What does that have to do with me? With this trial?"

Uncle Marcus pauses for a beat, thoughtful, seeming to search for the right words. "Do you remember when you were a kid, maybe eight or nine? One of your first partial shifts done under your own command, which isn't any easy feat for someone so young. Do you remember training in the forest?"

Anthony shrugs. He's spent most of his childhood in the Charmstone forests, much of it training to gain control over the wolf inside him and coming to terms with the duality of his nature. Much of it training with Uncle Marcus, even. Whatever memory Marcus is talking about surely isn't special enough to stand out to Anthony.

"We were teaching you how to track a scent when you came across this little bird that had fallen from its nest," Uncle Marcus tells him solemnly, hushed by the remembrance. "We could clearly see that the wings were broken and it was so young…Liz tried to shield you from seeing it, but you were so damned determined and got right by her. I'll never forget what you did next. Do you remember now?"

Anthony swallows and answers his uncle's prompting. "I asked if the bird would heal like we do…And you said no."

"That's right."

"And then I…"

Uncle Marcus dips his head. "And then you put that baby bird out of its misery, quick and easy. That's when we knew, Liz and I, that you had the kind of aptitude that the pack would need some day. See, it's all well and good to try to do the right thing, to keep the order, to follow procedure, but sometimes….sometimes you have to do what's necessary, not what's right."

Anthony rears back, uncurling his hands from the unconscious clench that had happened once Uncle Marcus jogged his memory. How Anthony could have forgotten such a thing is beyond him. "That's why Mom is so adamant about me undergoing the alpha trials? Because I snapped a bird's neck when I was a kid?"

"You're oversimplifying, but yeah," Uncle Marcus confirms. "Not that she particularly likes how similar you are to me in that regard, having the stomach for that kind of thing, but she sees what I see. You're the kind of leader the Masen Pack is going to need. An alpha that will do what has to be done. You've got it in you, hidden beneath all that teenage uncertainty, but you'll grow out of it."

"How can you be so sure?" Anthony wonders.

"Like I said, you have the aptitude," his uncle returns wisely. "You'll rise to the occasion when you need to and quit overthinking your instincts."

Anthony is silent, mulling over the utter confidence his uncle has in him.

"Sometimes, kid, you've got to follow your gut," Uncle Marcus advises. "And that's exactly what I want you to do when we get to Burlington. Do what's necessary. Don't hesitate."

 _Don't hesitate_ , Anthony echoes silently. _Now, why does that sound like permission?_

The Peri Pack in lives just outside of Burlington, deeper into the woods than what seems practical, and have marked off their territory with a wooden ranch-style fence that isn't the least bit subtle. As a courtesy to the pack they are visiting, Uncle Marcus parks his truck beside the fence and pulls Anthony alongside him as they enter the territory on foot, hands out of pockets to show that they are not entering another wolf's land with claws out. In any other circumstance, Anthony would have been trailing after his uncle, but as this is one of his trials, he is in the lead with Uncle Marcus two steps behind him, covering Anthony's non-dominant side. It is decidedly strange.

And the woods are far too quiet.

Anthony slows his steps with a pensive frown, straining his ears to reach deep between the trees to try to catch a sound because something is not right. Pack territories should be amuck with noise, children playing and wolves growling and a general harmony with the nature around them. But the Peri lands are hushed, as if waiting for something, and Anthony doesn't think that the anticipation is the arrival of himself and his uncle.

Anthony turns his head to the side, just enough to catch Marcus' gaze. "Do you hear that?"

Uncle Marcus cocks his head to the side, an oddly canine gesture that most werewolves make. "Hear what?"

"Exactly," Anthony says suspiciously. He inhales deep, because of all the senses, hearing is the most fleeting and scents leave a mark; what the ear misses, the nose can catch. There is something on the wind, a musk with an acrid bite - no _, no_. Two scents coming from almost the same direction, but the wind is shifting and he loses the trace of the bitter-sneeze scent in favor of the musky one that is traveling downwind.

Then he hears it - the heavy, wet thud of a large heart - so close so suddenly that it can only mean one thing - and he reacts without thinking too hard about it.

Anthony pushes his uncle to the side, twisting to meet the fully shifted wolf that springs from between the trees with a grunt. Covered in inky black hair with lips curled away from its teeth, the wolf meets Anthony head-on, paws ripping through the fabric of his shirt and digging into his skin. A shifted werewolf isn't so much larger than a regular wolf, but they are stronger and more intelligent, and this one is clearly on a mission. Anthony's back skids across dirt and rock, hot breath in his face as his head slams against the ground, and he feels the burn of his eyes flashing brilliant lupine gold. His jaw shifts to make room for his fangs, the bones in his fingers twisting and popping, his nails darkening and lengthening and sharpening - and with a sharp growl, Anthony arches his back to use the ground as leverage and hurls the wolf off of him.

In the next breath, he's rolled to his knees, one hand braced on the ground. He glares at the wolf. "Is that any way to greet a visiting envoy?"

The wolf's eyes glint, a gold cut through with cold blue, and pieces click together in Anthony's mind. The alpha trials are a time of upheaval in a werewolf's life, featuring incredible changes in their capabilities and in their appearances, none the least of which is the physical manifestation of the merging of the alpha spark within the wolf - shown through the combination of colors in the werewolf's eyes, which will eventually change permanently. The Masen Pack has always had alphas with green eyes; it seems the Peri Pack has alphas with blue.

Anthony eyes his opponent with a new understanding. Like him, this wolf is in the alpha trials, probably one of Caius' offspring; unlike Anthony, however, this wolf is further along. There isn't even a speck of green in Anthony's eyes. He's at a serious disadvantage.

Of course, he's realizing now that he's _meant_ to be at a disadvantage. Uncle Marcus' little conversation on the way over makes so much more sense now that Anthony knows it wasn't _just_ about employing tactful diplomacy. His mother's easy agreement to let Anthony tag along sits like lead in his stomach and he feels anger sear through him - he's been goddamn _bamboozled_.

Challenging another fledgling alpha is one of the trials.

One of them has to beat the other - definitively.

 _Do what's necessary_. _Don't hesitate_.

Anthony snarls, reaching through the heat of his anger to pull more of the shift forward - he can't turn full-wolf like his opponent, but Anthony's partial shift is more fearsome than many others. As the ridge of his brow thickens and all of his senses sharpen, Anthony thinks, more than a little irate, _Fucking fine, I'll do what everyone wants me to._

He just hopes that they can live with the outcome, because he sure as hell will.

Anthony doesn't intend to lose.

He lunges forward just as the wolf rights itself, and meets the claws aimed for his stomach with a grimace. The claws shred across his abdomen, but the injury is worth it for the way Anthony is able to rake his own claws down both sides of the wolf. They spring away from each other with twin growls, Anthony spitting blood from his mouth, the scent of copper quickly feeling the air.

"It's a dick move to ambush people," Anthony grits out between the burn of healing.

The wolf chuffs, almost a laugh, and then goes for Anthony's throat.

It's something of a blur after that, of teeth and claws and blood. He and the wolf wrestle with a heedless sort of violence; it is gratuitous in a way, as if they are both working off a mound of stress and anger rather than having an impromptu fight to near-death. And as they are nowhere near evenly matched, Anthony is surprised by how long it goes on. He doesn't have the sense that the wolf is playing with him. Rather, it is precisely because Anthony is not pulling his punches that he stays in the game for so long. Not once does he hesitate to deliver as much agony to his opponent as possible, and with the agility that comes with remaining mostly-human, Anthony soon finds that the tables begin to turn. He has the upper hand and his blood is rushing with the thrill of the fight - with the elation that comes with the savagery.

He enjoys the way blood tastes in his mouth, the way it slicks against his skin. He feels alive with the rasp of breath passing through torn lungs, with the crack of bones and the tear of skin and the blossom-bruise of pain lighting him up. He is ruthless; it feels natural.

At some point, on the periphery, he becomes aware that there is more to the audience of this battle for dominance than solely Uncle Marcus. Voices murmur, some in outrage and others in concern, and the longer the fight goes on, the more restless the watchers become until at last an authoritative voice cuts through the chatter. "Silence. Do not interfere."

Surging with adrenaline, Anthony is certain that he could stay in this fight for the rest of the day and never grow tired - the same cannot be said for the wolf, though. Sensing that his opponent is flagging, Anthony again disregards his body for a gambit, throwing himself forward so that the wolf is below him. And even though the wolf's claws scrabble against Anthony's ripped up torso, he is still able to press forward and close his fangs around the wolf's throat, biting down around a thick coat of fur until he tastes blood that is not his own.

A beat passes, maybe two, and the wolf ceases movement. Surrenders. Yields to Anthony's victory.

Anthony rolls onto his feet, breathing hard, rolling his neck and shoulders as the wolf slumps tiredly beside his feet. His eyes are glowing, a flash of too many teeth directed toward the watching crowd while blood begins to dry on his skin and his flesh ever-so-slowly knits itself together. "I win," he rasps.

Standing beside his uncle, a man with lupine blue eyes and greying hair curls his lip in an aggressive sneer. "So it would seem," Caius Peri agrees reluctantly. "Congratulations on besting my son."

"Is that Felix?" Uncle Marcus wonders, staring at the wolf carefully righting itself with a low whine. "How old is he again? Nineteen?"

"Twenty," Caius grits out.

Uncle Marcus whistles. "Hear that, kid? You beat the shit out of a wolf two years older than you. Good job."

"Nobody likes a braggart, Marcus," says the alpha of the Peri Pack.

Uncle Marcus snorts derisively. "You've changed your tune since the last time I saw you, then."

Caius shoots Marcus a cold glare, and then narrows his eyes frostily at his own son, before directing an assessing look toward Anthony. He pinches his lips together. "A trial won so fairly should be rewarded," he says tersely. "Let us retire to the compound before we continue this meeting. One of my betas will show you to a guest room so that you might get cleaned up."

Anthony dips his head, but does not drop his gaze. In all honesty, he doesn't mind the blood on his skin, part of him reveling in his victory; however, he is a guest here, and he suspects he has already offended Caius enough by besting Felix. No need to rub his nose in it.

Still, Anthony shows only the barest amount of deference to Caius as he and Uncle Marcus are escorted to the collection of log cabins scattered through the Vermont countryside. Anthony has just earned the right to be treated as an equal by this alpha and he is not willing to give that up. Not now and certainly not after he has rushed through a cool shower, garbed in ill-fitting clothes that smell of foreign wolves. By the time he returns from cleaning himself up, most of his wounds are already healed, with a few of the deeper ones seeping blood through borrowed fabric.

Anthony wears these wounds proudly. He's much less fucked up than Felix, who limps into Caius' office moments after Anthony and stands behind his father without making eye contact, arm held awkwardly at his side and dark hair dripping with water. Felix might as well have his tail between his legs. Caius ignores his son, sitting back in his chair behind his desk. He does not invite Anthony to sit, and that suits Anthony just fine. This isn't a social call - it never was.

Anthony cuts right to the chase. "My alpha has sent me here to inquire about the state of your territory. Specifically, if any hunters have been around without cause."

"Hunters always come without cause," Caius says dismissively.

Anthony stares placidly. What Caius has said isn't the least bit true, because most often hunters do set out to protect humans and only turn up when supernatural creatures - usually werewolves - are causing trouble. Sometimes, hunters have very good cause to hunt. But, Anthony will concede that the hunters sniffing around Charmstone don't have that cause, so he doesn't contend with Caius offhand assessment.

"These wouldn't be the average hunters," Anthony clarifies. "We think they're trained. We think they might be using a different form a wolfsbane. This is as much a courtesy to the standing alliance treaty between our packs as it is a bid for information."

"I know nothing," says Caius and he isn't lying. He also doesn't appear overly concerned. "We run vigorous patrols on our land and enact pack law whenever necessary."

Anthony is unmoved by the dig Caius is making toward the way his mother runs the Masen pack - the implication that the Masen pack is lax, undisciplined, too soft. Caius is angry that a member of a pack he views as inferior to his own has bested his son.

Anthony lifts his chin. "For the safety of your people, I hope that's true."

"Watch yourself, _pup_ ," Caius growls. "You aren't an alpha yet."

The corner of Anthony's mouth lifts into a smirk. "Yet," he repeats, a single word that cuts into the tension in the room to serve as a reminder.

Caius sneers. "Was that all?"

Anthony's eyes flick to Felix. "I got what I came for," he says.

He passed the alpha trial. He upheld his duty to his pack and delivered his alpha's message.

He found his aptitude.

* * *

 **A/N: So, as I'm sure some of you have realized, this particular arc is about more than just filling in the gaps of previous arcs, setting up future ones, and developing the #Anthella relationship. It's also about exploring the reasons behind Anthony's actions in previous arcs, specifically his interactions with Ella; in my notes, I actually have it titled Tony's Coming of Age. Like, in this chapter we learn that he's self-aware enough to realize that he's not a natural leader and he's repeatedly expressed a reluctance to become an alpha...and yet he's both in the future. Frankly, I want to know why.**

 **I'm rambling. Anyway, point is I like taking my time, so big thanks for all the patience as I love pieces across the board.**

 **Also, did anyone catch the teeny-tiny clue that was in this chapter? Follow your nose.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	113. part 8: 11: running on blind

**eleven**

 **running on blind**

* * *

Cabin fever hits Ella with all the subtly of a slap to the face and two weeks after she arrives in 2015, she can't stand to be hidden away inside the blueberry house anymore. Not for a single second longer. If she had company, maybe it would be different - but Raven's constant presence isn't so much companionship as it is being around an extension of herself and not even Ella will entertain _talking to herself_ for any prolonged period of time.

She's not _that_ type of crazy.

Anthony hasn't been around for four - or five - days. Given that she's pretty sure it's the first weekend of September, she figures he's been going to his first college classes, and since she'd done the whole first-semester-rush not too long ago, she understands why he's been absent. Not that she _wants_ him around, or anything. It's just worth noting, is all.

She doesn't, like, _need_ him for anything at the moment. And she definitely doesn't miss him, either.

She does miss 2018, though - a kind of yearning for Peter's absurdity and Carlisle's paternal fretting and Alice's slow-thawing prissiness and the near-constant activity she can count on to keep herself busy. That's probably the worst part of being in the past, she thinks. The thumb-twiddling and page-flipping and the isolation. Ella isn't _social_ exactly, has always been content to her own company because she could get lost enough in her head that she doesn't _need_ other people - but she hadn't realized how accustomed she'd become to the relative noisiness of her life. Not until it was absent.

She needs to get back home.

(And isn't that the heart-twisting realization, to know that she _has_ a home - finally, after all those years of being unwanted and actively avoiding getting to comfortable in the places she lived. Charmstone is her _home_ and she wants to get back before she's missed. Before she has a chance to keep missing it - them.)

Which is why she grasps at the first excuse to get outside of the blueberry house, regardless of how flimsy it really is.

Quite by accident, Ella stumbles across a dusty old spell in one of the Viridity books which claims to pause a moment in time if the caster drinks a specific potion prior to the incantation. Ella figures that if the original spell works and she _can_ stop time for a second, then she can just push all of her power at the spell and _will_ the damn thing to take her into the future - maybe with the use of Merlin's athame. Or something. If the spell works, then she's at least on the right track. And she really doesn't have anything to lose now, does she? With that in mind, she reads the potion ingredients and decides that it is possible many of the items will be in the Charmstone forest.

When she says as much to Raven, her familiar clicks her beak doubtfully. "You truly believe a _potion_ can aid in time travel."

Ella tosses her hair off her face. Trust Raven to be a complete and total skeptic right when Ella least needs it. "Well, _not_ really, but gambling is popular for a reason. Sometimes, you win," she says shrewdly. "I'm willing to take the bet."

"That much is obvious."

She rolls her eyes. "Are you going to help me find this stuff or not?" she asks, waving a magical copy of the spell into her hand.

"As I doubt you can tell the difference between foxglove and horsetail, I don't seem to have any other choice," Raven intones dryly.

"You're hilarious."

Of course, Raven is also right - Ella has no earthly idea what it is she's looking for out in the Charmstone forest. The phone that came with her from the future is useless, having long lost its charge, so she doesn't have the internet for reference, and it isn't as if the spellbook had bothered to include depictions of the required ingredients. She needs Raven's knowledge, which stretches back further than Ella cares to contemplate. Her magic has never been about brewing concoctions and, really, anytime Carlisle has rattled on about this herb and that berry, Ella's eyes had glazed over in boredom. Not once has she ever needed specific knowledge of herbology, or whatever. It's not the way she works and it isn't the way her magic is tuned. Plus, Ella doesn't really _cook_ and she has a feeling that potion-making would react negatively to being burned. She really is gambling.

Beneath the canopy of trees, it's warm enough that she is reduced to tying one of Anthony's donated flannel shirts around her waist, an oversized t-shirt falling off her shoulder as she forages under Raven's keen-eyed directions. Sometimes, Raven will attempt to educate Ella so that she can understand why these particular ingredients are included in a potion designed to stop time - _horsetail is, apparently, used to clot blood, which is a symbolic representation of what the potion is designed to do_ \- but she gives up after a while. Maybe Ella should care more than she does, but she's more focused on getting results at the moment. She can learn the why-fors and how-tos later.

It's as she's traipsing around in search of a mullberry tree - and who knew that mullberries grew on trees - that Ella is first alerted that something in the Charmstone forest is not quite right. It's not like she hears something or sees anything, but there is a peculiar decline of the ambient noise, a sort of syrup-slow hush that quiets the birds and makes the breeze through the trees sound deafening.

Ella's eyes flick up to Raven, who is balanced on her shoulder, and then back to the forest around her. She drops the scant gathering of herbs at her feet, gaze roving around as she calls forth her magician's vision. Between one breath and the next, like a roll of fog spreading across the plains of her eyesight, the crisscrossing of lifelines and ley lines seeps into view. She studies it for a moment, ignoring the blinding silver brightness of her own life force and her bond to Raven in favor of the dull lines stretching toward the south-eastern edge of Charmstone.

 _The town line_ , Ella thinks with a spark of recognition. What kind of humans flirting at the warded edge of Charmstone would cause the kind of terse stir all through the forest?

"Hunters," she breathes, eyes widening a fraction. She jerks her chin in the direction of the dull lifelines, then says, "Raven, _go_ \- see what they're up to. I'm right behind you. Hurry."

Raven takes off in a flutter of oil-spill dark feathers and Ella hastens after, chasing the silver corded bond between herself and her familiar instead of following after the human lifelines. She spares no second thoughts about abandoning the potion ingredients. Instead, as her feet pound on familiar ground, she finds herself thinking that _now_ would be a really convenient time to teleport.

But she doesn't make the attempt. It's too risky, too impulsive, and Ella knows - after that passing interaction with the hunters in 2018 - that its best to approach this situation with a mind for observation. She thinks Kebi would be proud of that impulse control, but mostly she thinks - completely out of the blue - that Anthony in 2018 would appreciate her caution. He certainly hadn't been pleased with her gumption to confront the hunters in 2018. Probably for good reason, considering that more than a few of those dull, craggy lifelines look passably familiar; she's seen them before in the future, and judging by the way the hunters called _her_ "beast", they remember her not-so-fondly. Anthony circa 2018 had probably been trying to protect the timeline by trying to keep Ella away from the hunters. Or something.

(Could he have been trying to protect more than the timeline? Maybe.)

She wants to return the favor.

She doesn't want to think too hard about _why_ , either.

Twenty minutes later finds Ella a mile from where she started, having weaved through the outskirts for a long as possible before being forced to ditch that method. As it is impossible to get from one side of Charmstone to the other without passing directly through the town somehow, and since Ella started in the woods nearer to the blueberry house on the opposite side of town, she has no choice but to cut directly through the town square. Cursing silently, Ella keeps her head down, bypassing the high school where there is some big crowd cheering about some athletic accomplishment or other. Because it's suspicious as hell to just be _running_ through town, Ella's pace is reduced to that of a mildly fast walk as she shoulders through the town square and down a side street that leads to another neighborhood on the east side of town. As soon as she spies the deep shadow of the forest lurking behind houses, Ella breaks out into a hurried dash, scrambling over an absurdly tall backyard fence before finding herself back in the woods.

Winded, she recalls why mastering teleportation is so important. Hoofing it takes too much time, causes a stitch in her unathletic side, and costs more effort than it's probably worth. She's just gone into _freaking_ town and she shouldn't have, because no matter how brief she was there, there is always the chance of someone seeing her when they really, really shouldn't. Hell, the hag literally kept pictorial evidence -

Wait, wait. Was it inevitable that Ella would _have_ to go into town? Fucking time travel is so confusing - she doesn't know what's supposed to happen or what isn't supposed to happen, and there's no way of knowing whether she's managed to irreparably mess something up until she gets back to her own time.

With that thought in mind, Ella pauses for the briefest of moments, leaning against a near by tree. It's the same principle if she's seen by the hunters, isn't it? But they already knew her in the future, so did it matter if they saw her now? Is it too soon? Too late? Ella shakes her head. She's already come so far - and, peering at the dull lifelines, she knows that she's almost on top of the hunters.

One foot in front of the other, Ella strengthens her resolve to _at the very least_ gather evidence and then the next time she sees Anthony, she'll be able to tell him that hunters are hanging around town. That will be good enough for a future favor returned, won't it?

Ella turns her gaze back to the silvery familiar bond, brushing against it just enough to know that Raven has settled onto a perch far above the hunters - and it _is_ the hunters, according to the bird. Ella moves forward, mindful to keep quiet now that she's getting so close that they might hear something moving in the woods behind them. She raises a hand, calling forth power with a handy hiding spell on the tip of her tongue, when a blazing gold lifeline shoots right in front of her - very quickly followed by a particularly irate, half-shifted werewolf who she knows better than most people.

The spell goes uncast as Anthony lumbers forward, expression dark like a thundercloud. His cheeks are ruddy, curly hair windswept away from his forehead, and despite the stormy expression, he is still as strikingly handsome as ever. "What are you doing here?" he growls.

Ella blinks at him, somewhat taken aback by how aggressive he's behaving. Tracing over the roughened features of his face brought on by the partial shift, she alights on the specks of verdant edging the rum-amber of his eyes, and then she understands. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been as golden-eyed as his siblings; something must have happened in the time between that brought on the change in his eyes, the boost in his wolfiness. The green in his eyes, she knows, is a sure-fire sign that Anthony is well on his way to becoming an alpha in his own right, and it certainly explains the new edge to him that hadn't been there before.

The suddenness of his arrival, his ability to sneak up on her is, of course, attributed to her subconscious trust in him - it's the same thing as Ella not really seeing her bond with Raven unless she wants to. Kind of. That doesn't mean it's any less vexing, especially since this is _not_ the first time Anthony has been able to catch her unaware. And not for the first time, she wonders _how_ he does it. If she didn't know any better, she'd think it was a goddamn magic trick. As it is, he's a werewolf and she can only assume that his is a better nose than most - and one that hasn't been broken yet, it seems. Such a small detail, such a tiny difference between the two Anthonys she knows, but an important one all the same.

Because she is no shrinking violet, Ella does not wilt away from the piercing quality of his gaze. Jutting one hip out, she raises a brow at him and says, "I assume we're here for the same reason. Do the hunters just on the other side of the town line ring a bell? Or did you not know about them?"

His lips press together. "I know about them. They've been here before, sniffing around and watching us."

" _Interesting_. Feel free to share more."

Anthony's heavy brow knits together above a fierce frown. "You're outside," he states.

"Great observation skills there."

"You can be _seen_ ," he expands. "Aren't you trying to avoid that? Because you should be."

"Hunters," she supplies frankly. "More than enough of a reason to venture outdoors, wouldn't you agree?"

"They aren't your problem."

Ella scoffs.

Anthony barrels on, unconcerned by the way a stubborn set comes to her jaw. "This isn't _your_ time, so it isn't _your_ problem," he tells her firmly. "Go back to whatever it was you were doing. These hunters aren't the garden variety sort of-"

"Oh, I know," she interrupts irately, careful to keep her voice low enough so that it doesn't carry. She points her finger at Anthony, just short of actually jabbing him in the chest with her nail. "Don't make a mistake and think you helping me means you get to tell me what to do. I decide if I go outside. I decide if I follow hunters around. Not you."

"What good is my help if you blow your fucking cover?" he counters. She shakes her head, ready to retort, but he continues on, dropping his voice lower. "You don't want to tussle with these hunters, okay? They're…different than the others. They have something at their disposal, some tool that…"

Ella stares at him, struck by the oddly haggard appearance breaking beneath the surface - eyes hung with dark shadows, jaw clenched tightly, nose flaring with the kind of simmering anger she knows only too well. She tilts her head at him, voice coming out more gently than she intends as she asks, "What's happened, Anthony? What did these hunters do?"

He doesn't look like he plans to answer for a long moment, but then he releases a gust of a sigh, rubbing the palm of his clawed hand down the side of his face. "There's a pack in Vermont," he says, then winces, like he's mispoken. "There… _was_ a pack in Vermont. We just heard today that the Peri Pack has been…The Peri Pack is gone. All of them. Burnt to cinders with some kind of, I don't know, a barrier put in place or something that kept all the wolves trapped…And it's these hunters."

Some part of Ella is moved by his honesty. She thinks how much it would have cost _her_ to be that honest with a virtual stranger; she's sure she wouldn't have been able to do it, even for as much as she preaches about truth.

She turns her head, again locating the dull lifelines of the hunters. She's met them before, of course, and in 2018 they didn't seem the type to commit such a vicious crime. Arson and trapping people just to burn them alive seems more _advanced_ than the slurring, backwater men were capable of - especially because Anthony in 2018 had seemed more annoyed by them than anything else. This younger Anthony is outwardly wary, maybe even fearful of the rumor of how that Vermont pack perished.

Admittedly, it does sound like an atrociously painful way to go. Still, there is something disharmonious about her impression of the hunters and what Anthony is divulging. She squints after the lifelines. "Are you sure?"

"It's the same scent, acidic and bitter," he says grimly. "I can smell it now, even this far away. Hard to forget."

Ella has trusted Anthony's nose before and she has no reason to not trust it now, so his certainty is more than enough to seal her decision. She nods to herself, pulling at the magic in her blood to non-verbally cast a spell over her person - concealing her from being heard, from being smelt, from being seen unless she wants to be - to effectively disappear in the space of a second -

"What are you doing?" Anthony demands, reaching forward with a shock-slackened face. "Bella?"

She rolls her eyes, pushing his searching hand away and ignoring the flip of her stomach when he sighs in relief after she has excluded her spell from being applied to him. He relaxes the moment she shimmers into view, an expression which is short-lived once she says, "What do you think I'm doing? I'm going to go see what's going on. If I'm lucky, I might be able to get my hands on whatever substance they're using to-"

"Are you _insane_?"

"Not clinically," she says dryly.

"You can't just go and spy on them."

"There you go again, trying to tell me what to do," she sighs. "Really, it's getting boring."

He makes an abortive movement. "I'm not trying-" Anthony stops, teeth clicking together. He tries again, seeming to make an effort to keep himself contained. "This is dangerous and so counterproductive to your actual goal that I almost can't comprehend it."

Ella makes a speedy assessment, trying to parse out what seems to strange about his body language and tone - not _new_ , exactly, because she's seen something similar on the Anthony of the future, but certainly less reserved, less locked down. It hits her with a sense of dismay. He's being protective.

Anthony Masen is trying to _safeguard_ her.

When was the last time someone honestly tried to protect her? Ella has been looking out for herself for so long that even with Carlisle taking on a fatherly role, the very idea of someone putting her safety ahead of their own is still utterly foreign. Like a shock to the system, a bolt from the blue that she isn't equipped to handle at all.

"Are you trying to protect me? _Save me_ from my own bad decisions?" Her tone is downright rude, a nasty derisiveness layered in her voice that communicates exactly what she thinks about be treated like she can't look after herself properly. "I don't need saving and I don't need a watchdog."

Anthony's expressions shutters, the hinge of his jaw ticking. "Fine. Go ahead, find the lurking hunters waiting for you - for anyone - to pass by, and take your chances. I don't care. Do what you want!"

"I will!"

"Great!"

"Fantastic!"

Ella shoots him a withering glare and turns on her heel, stomping through the underbrush toward the town line with an angry fire crawling up her spine. How totally fucking _presumptuous_ of him - as if she needed anyone or anything at her back, especially a werewolf still wet behind the ears and not even in possession of an alpha spark! The nerve is mindblowing.

But her seething and stomping doesn't take her very far before she becomes aware of the sounds of someone following her. Ella wheels around, gaping at the glower aimed at her from her very own protective pain in the ass. Her mouth snaps shut. "What are you _doing_?" she asks irritably.

He matches her agitation with a flash of lupine eyes. "I'm not letting you go _alone_."

"You're not _letting_ me do anything," she snaps.

Anthony rolls his eyes with a scoff. "As if you'd ever let anyone forget your fucking independence," he returns hotly. "But this is _my_ town and if you cast that spell on me too, then maybe I can find out how to protect my pack."

Ella presses her lips together, biting back the retort threatening to break through, and waves her hand sharply at him, watching with satisfaction as he wrinkles his nose when his own scent disappears and he has to strain to hear his own heartbeat. She makes sure that her magic is firmly cloaking the both of them before she spins around again - marching toward the hunters as much as she is marching away from Anthony and the unexpected heat of their argument.

* * *

 **A/N: Remember that picture the hag saved as a memento? Bingo - it was taken in this chapter when Ella was cutting through the town to get to the hunters. Thought I would mention it now because it probably won't come up again, like, explicitly stated in the story. It's safe to say that the hag does her own research at some point and puts a face to a name, so to speak. Anyway.**

 **Got to love Ella and her commitment to denying her own feelings - even going so far as to pick a fight! Ah, these kids.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	114. par 8: 12: brighter than anyone

**twelve**

 **brighter than anyone**

* * *

 _She is infuriating and fucking impossible_ , Anthony internally seethes as he becomes a shadow in broad daylight, hidden by a layer of magic that hangs in a heavy lightning-strike cloud over him. He's scowling openly and it doesn't even matter because he's basically invisible.

The state of his person is a difficult one to reconcile; as a werewolf, magic cast on him will never behave quite as predictably as it would on a human or a potential and this is something that all supernatural creatures who do not wield magic must contend with. While Bella's spell is more than adequate in masking his scent and muffling his heart beat, Anthony finds that he is still able to see himself, if not quite in the traditional sense. As he glances down at his arms and legs, he feels an awful lot like a chameleon, not quite blending in with his surroundings. He can barely make out Bella and suspects - rightly - that had he not also had the same spell cast on him, she would _actually_ disappear before his very eyes. Disconcerting, to say the least.

But not as disconcerting as _she_ is.

Bella is an unfathomable dichotomy - possessing intentions that are diametrically opposed to her actions. She hasn't so much harmed him at all, but she has the vague threat of a botched memory spell hanging over his head. She ridicules his delivery of unasked for items, but uses them with obvious care anyway. She wants to get back to her own time, but here she is, taking point on the situation with the hunters that has _nothing_ to do with her at all.

 _Goddamn unsettling_ , he decides as he watches her stumble around tree roots - silent as death - to get closer to the hunters. He takes a decidedly more balanced approach, pausing on the high land to study the sight presented to him after they cross the town line. There is a steep hill of a narrow road paved along the outer edge of the Charmstone forest, one side of the road a gaping ravine and the other side flat land clustered with short, crooked trees. The hunters have pulled over on the side of the road, one pick-up truck loaded with a dark canopy and two big, black SUVs that are angled toward the base of the trees, with one of the trucks open as the hunters talk with each other. The hunters are all men with shaved heads and sunglasses, leather jackets pulled over unsubtle gun holsters. They look serious and Anthony suddenly recalls that Uncle Marcus had said these hunters are trained, advanced, and deserved pack law before Coterie justice.

He finds himself agreeing - on all fronts.

"Get over here," Bella hisses, canting an impatient look over her shoulder as Anthony realizes how wide the gap between them has grown. While Anthony was sizing up the enemy, Bella was busy getting closer, slipping down the ravine to come up on the other side of the road.

Too close to the hunters, Anthony thinks, considering that the only thing separating them from the hunters is Bella's spell, two lanes of asphalt, and a trench on the side of the road that is just big enough to kneel in. Bella situates herself in that trench, bending the tall grass around her diminutive form, and Anthony follows with a healthy sense of trepidation, checking his chameleon cloaking twice as he settles into place at her side.

She doesn't spare him a second glance, and part of him is glad for it.

Bella seems to exist outside of the reach of caution - as inconceivable as it is, she seems to view her personal safety as an afterthought. It's unprecedented. As a werewolf, Anthony is accustomed to viewing his state of health as something in a state of constant flux, the ability to heal being a luxury that has spoiled him. He knows he can heal; he knows that any injury, save those that are particularly extreme, are not life threatening. Bella has no such luxury, no matter how rare and strong her magic is, and it does not seem to even occur to her that this is the case.

Anthony doesn't know whether this is bravery or stupidity or carelessness, but he does know that he finds it astounding. Somewhat admirable, even. At the very least, the pragmatist that he is can appreciate how useful her boundless approach to this situation can be for him, for his pack, for his town. The opportunity is loaded with potential if it is done right - and with magic hiding them so completely from detection, especially detection from a bunch of humans, he can't see a downside. Not really. For now, he is willing and able to follow Bella's lead and see what the hunters are up to.

Admittedly, it is a good idea to try and figure out what the substance is that contributed to the Peri Pack's death. It is strategy more than anything that has him playing second hand to this magician.

(Later, he will privately concede that his actions are not nearly as reluctant as he would like to believe them to be - and he will acknowledge that these moments prove that he does possess the aptitude to be an alpha.)

(Courage is something that Bella teaches him, even for as reckless as her brand of courage is.)

"Look at this," she says urgently as another SUV rolls down the road. The make and model are the same as the others and apparently realizing this, Bella tugs sharply on the sleeve of his shirt.

"Hey, watch it-"

"Shut up," she tells him, eyes bright as she stares straight ahead. "Look at this - this _meeting_ , or whatever. They're not even trying to hide...What are they saying?"

Anthony cocks his head to the side, hearing trained on the sounds of scraping boots and shutting doors and gruff greetings happening across the road. There is a deference of sorts in the tone that is used with the newcomer, and Anthony realizes that the third SUV must be driven by the leader of this group. They call him Stanley; he is a stout man with mouse-brown hair and a thick gristle to his accent that reminds Anthony of some of his Southern cousins.

Bella is right. These hunters, Stanley in particular, doesn't seem to give two figs about being seen and they aren't making any effort to be quiet, either. Even with the _Welcome to Charmstone_ sign looming over their shoulders - or maybe because of it - the hunters aren't pretending to be anything than what they are. Anthony, who has never really dealt with hunters, isn't sure if this is a normal sort of confidence, or if this confidence is inspired by what they have packed so tightly in the back of that truck.

"Didja get it?" Stanley wonders, hand held casually by his gun holster.

A reedy man with a thin strip of blond hair growing on his chin steps forward. "Got some of it, boss."

Stanley clicks his tongue. "What's that supposed to mean? Either you got it or you don't."

"We used a lot in Vermont," the blond returns nervously. Anthony presses his lips together, chest rumbling in a suppressed growl. "Our supplier is workin' on findin' some more, but it don't grow on trees."

"Yeah it does," says one of the other hunters, sounding a bit confused.

The blond glares at him. "It _does_ , but it _don't_ , Weber. Just 'cause it _is_ a tree don't mean that it's so easy to get."

"Stop your bickerin'," Stanley orders, waiting until all has fallen silent before he continues, directing an expectant glare at the blond hunter. "Y'all better not disappoint me again, Mallory. Next time I ask about it, I wanna hear that our supply is replenished," Stanley warns are he ambles straight through the crowd of bodies. "Lemme see how much you have."

"Right away, boss!" Mallory says, hurrying to the back of the pick-up truck and pulling out one of several large cardboard boxes. He opens it up, plucking something wrapped in thick plastic from inside and holding it out for Stanley to inspect.

Anthony communicates all of this to Bella, fascinated by the way her eyes light up in recognition. Does she know them? Does she know what the substance is?

"We need to get our hands on some of that," she says after a moment of contemplation, nodding to herself.

"You say that like it's so easy," Anthony says with a shake of his head. "There are a dozen hunters and two of us, not to mention they _do_ have a truck full of whatever that shit is."

Bella rolls her eyes with a disgruntled air. "You're forgetting about magic. Just, like, wait here for a minute, okay?"

And before Anthony can so much as protest, Bella is halfway up the embankment and standing in the middle of the road with her arm held out to the side - and then she disappears completely from view, apparently having cast that spell over herself again. Anthony curses under his breath, craning his neck around to try and figure out where she is and what she's doing, but for several long minutes, there is exactly zero indication of where she has gone.

Then -

"Christ on a cracker!" one of the hunters yelps, followed by the others releasing several streaks of blue language as they spring away from each other. Stanley jumps, seemingly stung by something, and then brings his gun out of his holster, swinging it around warily with his finger on the trigger.

Anthony's lungs feel tight. _She's in the middle of all of that_ , he just knows it.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

Moments later, all of the sudden the hunters sway and collapse onto the ground - struck by dizziness or sleepiness, Anthony doesn't know. But as the hunters groan in confusion, he can see the box that Mallory dug around in moving in the back of the truck, and he knows that Bella is retrieving her prize. He exhales heavily, retreating back into the shadows of the ravine to wait for her return. It isn't long until the faintest of distortions crosses his line of sight, maybe half the time it takes for the hunters to come back to themselves and begin to squabble accusations at each other.

Somehow, Bella grasps Anthony by his elbow and tugs him along the tree line, perpendicular to the road and around the long way of the ravine to avoid the steep upward climb. The pace is not overly speedy. He can't help but feel as if he's walking away from a metaphorical explosion, leaving the hunters in confusion as he takes the advantage that is offered to him.

Safe within the borders of the Charmstone forest, Bella breaks the spell over them, revealing herself to be studying the plastic-wrapped substance with a furrow in the fine arch of her brow. It's difficult to look at the sturdy plastic and not feel like she's just stolen contraband - apprehended drugs from a cartel, or something smuggled over the border, because that's exactly what the substance looks like at first glance.

Bella shifts the package from hand to hand, turning it this way and that with a deep sigh. "Yeah, I don't know what this is," she tells him. "What does it smell like?"

"Plastic."

"Plastic?"

Anthony shrugs, not sure what else to _say_ after she's done this incredibly ballsy thing so _casually_ , like it is nothing. Even though it is - _it is_. He eyes the package curiously. "Do you know what it is?"

"Do I look like I have x-ray vision to you?" Bella returns rhetorically. She runs her nail beneath the edge of tape holding the plastic together, pulling it apart decisively. They both peer at the contents, a grainy soot-like substance that smells so strongly of burnt wood that Anthony turns and sneezes twice in quick succession. Bella, meanwhile, is poking her finger into the grains, rubbing her thumb against it, as if testing the feel. She shakes her head, turning a slightly baffled took to him as she says, "I think this is magic."

Anthony recoils sharply. "Magic? You _think_ it's magic?"

Her expression twists. "It's not like I'm an expert, okay? There's tons of tiny, weird branches of magic and I keep getting side tracked by crisis after crisis, so _yeah_ , I think it's magic. It feels like magic. They said it was from a tree?"

"Yeah," he confirms. "Ash from a tree, maybe?"

"It's possible, I guess," Bella says as she closes the package back up, a slash of irritation crossing the delicate planes of her face. "But I haven't heard of any freaking magic trees, so."

"Neither have I."

Bella's bird swoops down from the tops of the trees, trilling something that causes Bella to light up with recognition. "That's a good point, Raven," she praises. Bella then thrusts the package at Anthony. "I have another job for you."

"That has to do with _this_?"

"Definitely," she says, almost reassuring. Her lips spread into a delighted, shark-sharp smile as she continues. "There's somebody in town who would know all about this kind of crap - and you're going to go talk to him."

* * *

 **A/N: Any guesses as to who Anthony is being sent to speak with? IDK what you get if you guess right - maybe just a sense of accomplishment from a job well done. On another note, I think you all will be very perturbed with me and then very happy with me in the upcoming updates, and for that reason, I am considering doing a supernormal #futuretakes thing for a Christmas present to all you lovely readers and reviewers (decision pending my school break, which can come any day now, _please_ ).**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	115. part 8: 13: shamanism

**thirteen**

 **shamanism**

* * *

Growing up in a town like Charmstone, being ignorant about the existence of other creatures is next to impossible; Anthony has known about ghouls and witches and faeries since he was very young. The fact that the town council is weighed down by creature counterparts to the human representative is widely known by anyone in the know. And the fact that Sam's diner is co-owned by a djinn who happens to know the culinary cravings of every customer to walk through the door is the town's worst-kept secret.

That does not mean, however, that casually striking up a conversation about the supernatural goings-on in the town is, like, a _done_ thing. It doesn't really happen outside of town council meetings. Creatures keep their business to themselves, both to keep the peace and because of the distinct cultural divides between them. Despite this, Anthony finds himself in a position to throw all of that cultivated wisdom away - all because a girl gave him a job that he intends to see through.

Though why she seems to think that a shady as fuck shaman - known to Anthony as a member of the town council who only bothers to show up half the time, much to his mother's consternation - is the solution to this massive problem is a mystery to him. Bella hadn't bothered to explain why William Black, an art professor at Viridity and probably one of the last shaman in Northern America, would possess the kind of knowledge they need to identify the substance toted around by hunters. No, all she'd said was to find the shaman and get the answers they need.

"Go here, do this," he grumbles to himself as he wanders down yet another hallway in the art building. Naturally, because he's carrying the substance in his backpack, Anthony is feeling not unlike a drug runner, or whatever, and his irritation is only added to by how _easy_ it was for Bella to convince him to do this in the first place. "Let me just bat my pretty eyes at you and watch as you do my bidding…Jeez…"

He might actually be an idiot.

A fucking _besotted_ one, at that.

William Black is wrist-deep in cleaning brushes with paint thinner by the time Anthony locates him and Anthony spares a second to study him. Tall, strapped with corded muscle beneath a russet complexion and of an indeterminate age, William Black is a prime example of a lackadaisical artist, covered more in paint than unstained clothes. Shamans are such head-scratchers, really - all of his life, Anthony has been taught that shapeshifters cannot cast magic, but shamans break that rule. Shamans are the sole exception to that rule.

 _What would it be like to use magic_? Intense, probably, if Bella's use of magic is any stick by which to judge. Which maybe it shouldn't be, given that she also seems to be exempt from certain rules. Maybe that's why she sent him to the shaman.

He isn't irked by that; he's _not_ jealous.

He has no reason to _be_ jealous.

"Are you going to stand there all day, werewolf, and cast a shadow on my workspace, or would you rather get straight to whatever business has brought you to my door?"

Anthony starts at the suddenness of Black's speech, then scowls at the shaman as he steps into the studio classroom. "Someone told me that you'd be able to identify something," he says, intentionally vague.

Black wipes off his hands on a ratty rag, turning fathomless black eyes to Anthony with a spark of humor glinting in their depths. "Someone, something," Black muses. "And what might the alpha-to-be of Charmstone have gotten his hands on?"

Anthony shifts, digging through his backpack to gingerly retrieve the plastic-wrapped substance from inside. He holds it between them with a skeptical quirk of his brow. "Lifted this off some hunters loitering just outside of town," he says.

"Did you?"

Anthony averts his eyes. He can't exactly tell the shaman about a time-traveling magician, can he? Even if Bella seems to _know_ Black, not just know _of_ him, it seems like the wisest thing to keep her presence a secret for as long as possible. So, Anthony does not respond to the inquiry, instead asking, "Do you know what this is?"

Black hums, a curtain of inky black hair streaked with oil paints spilling over the opposite shoulder as he lifts the package to eye-level, turning it this way and that for a long while. Peeling back the plastic slowly - very much unlike Bella's approach - Black takes his time sniffing at the grainy substance, rubbing it between his fingers, even going so far as to taste it. "Burns," he says after a while, wincing as he rubs his fingers together and spits into a bucket of cloudy water behind him.

Anthony is surprised, to say the least. The substance burns? He wouldn't know himself, not having been bold enough to actually touch the stuff because it irritated his sinuses enough that he wasn't eager to test it on his other senses. But Bella had touched it, just like Black, and _she_ hadn't expressed any inkling of pain after coming into contact with it. Because of her magic? Because she's a magician? Because the substance is geared only toward shapeshifters and the like?

"Dangerous stuff you've gotten ahold of," Black comments idly.

"Yeah?" Anthony's tone turns dark rather than inquisitive. "More dangerous if hunters have it?"

"Doubtlessly."

"What _is_ it?" Anthony demands.

Black is careful to not touch the substance as he folds the plastic back, smoothing the tape into place. "Do you know that throughout history, humanity and supernatural beings alike have long-recognized the peculiar properties of trees? Look at any mythos and trees have always represented something - the fruit of the poisoned tree, for example, or the healing properties that are found in the bark of the willow tree. Trees have symbolized life, as well as death."

"So, _that_ ," he nods to indicate the substance sitting between them. "Is from a tree?"

"A very strange tree, in fact," Black confirms knowledgably, rubbing his reddened fingers together. "Have you ever heard of the manchineel tree? It is said that standing beneath its leaves while it rains will cause incredible blistering, that the smoke of a burning manchineel will cause extreme reactions - even imbibing the fruit is fatal. The manchineel tree has always been associated with symbols of death…The manchineel is the most toxic tree to exist on the planet, and that toxicity is only on _humans_. Imagine, then, what the ash of such a tree might become if it is imbued with magic, such as this one?"

"I can imagine," Anthony says grimly.

Black raps the packaging. "Powerful magic has been cast on these ashes - you can tell by just looking at how grainy the consistency has become. This manchineel ash, I suspect, is spelled to act as a barrier in a twisted mimicry of the holly ash barriers hedge witches use in their rituals. This is…." Black pauses, seeming to search for words. "This is lethal on scales that can hardly be imagined. _Especially_ in the hands of hunters."

Anthony's stomach constricts with a sharp spike of anxiety. People say that knowledge is power, but having this knowledge seems like a terrible burden. Feeling pale, Anthony places the manchineel ash into his backpack again. "Thanks for…" He hesitates.

Black inclines his chin. "Of course, alpha-to-be. And do pass my salutations on to the someone you are collaborating with."

"Yeah. I will. Thanks again," Anthony mutters, a bit lost in his head, reeling from the abrupt gravity of the situation. He leaves Black and the art building, dodging other students on campus as he troops toward the front gates - too aware of what it is _exactly_ that is hiding so innocuously in his backpack.

So much worse than what he imagined.

It's only after he's reported back to Bella that Anthony wonders why Black's answers came so easy - why Black hadn't hesitated to answer questions about a volatile substance that had already proven to be more destructive than conscionable.

 _Shamans are fucking weird_.

* * *

 **A/N: Two people guessed correctly that Black would have the answers! Some said Aro, which I did consider, and some said Peter, which I did not consider as he's in high school and only affiliated with Bree and doesn't really _know_ about any of this shit (yet). Others were very confident that Carlisle would be in this chapter, but obviously he wasn't - partially because he's in New York at the moment and only months from Ella pick-pocketing him during Christmastime. Why Black, then? Well, he's got the enhanced senses _and_ the magic _and_ the knowledge, so that part was a no-brainer, but also because you might remember that Black has acted as a catalyst for Ella in the future - and, hey, he definitely had a reason for wanting her to be honest about her emotions.**

 **To quote Dirk Gently, "it's all connected".**

 **Also, wow, this explanation got long-winded very quickly. Sorry not sorry.**

 **Oh, and also, everything about the manchineel tree is absolutely true, those suckers are _wicked_.**

 **ALSO, the peculiarities of shamans is _definitely_ foreshadowing another detail _way, way_ later in this story's universe. Just saying.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	116. part 8: 14: hurts with every breath

**fourteen**

 **hurts with every breath**

* * *

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. It wasn't supposed to happen at all.

The plan, if it can even be called that, was baldly direct, both in intention and execution. If the hunters do not have their current supply of manchineel ash, then they will not be able to fuck with anyone and there will be some time bought for Anthony to take the information he has to his mother and Uncle Marcus to put together a long-term plan. But as Bella pointed out, time _really_ is of the essence, especially since they already know that these hunters have killed before and are planning on killing again. In a facsimile of rational thinking, Bella had then suggested that they just remove the manchineel ash from the equation altogether and scare the hunters away. It made sense, then; no ash, no hunters, no death.

They'd been arrogant, though - _Bella_ had been arrogant and heart-stoppingly reckless and impulsive and aggressive and _goddamn stupid_. At best, their plan was half-baked, considering they had no idea how the manchineel ash actually behaved.

In a single word, Anthony can sum it up: explosive.

The 10th of September finds Anthony and Bella ducked in the shadows of a tree not twenty feet from where the hunters are still idling their SUV and pick-up truck on the side of the road. Having snuck up from the opposite direction, they have the advantage of being at the hunter's backs without the hunters being aware. They also have the advantage of being closer to the pick-up truck loaded down with manchineel ash packages than any of the hunters, who seem content to amble around aimlessly, like they're waiting for something - or someone. The rest of their supply, if Anthony had to guess.

Bella is radiating impatience, a twist of lemon zest through her scent, broadcasted in the way her hands twitch beneath the glass-shards of her jewelry. Her bird is somewhere else, he thinks, and he doesn't question it because Bella isn't the type of girl that would appreciate interrogation. At seeing the hunters all with their backs turned, she breathes out a steady gust of air, turns to him with the silver flecks of her eyes glinting, and says, "Don't do anything stupid, or heroic, or whatever. Stick to the plan.)

In retrospect, Bella preemtively chiding him against heroics is laughably ironic. At the moment, though, he is faintly disgruntled, once again finding himself standing in the background while she strides forward. Her stride is so confident, like she's just that sure of the world beneath her feet, and she doesn't seem to care that the men she is about to provoke have proven exceptionally dangerous.

To gain their attention, Bella taps the leader - Stanley - on the shoulder. "Excuse me?" she says pleasantly, slipping into a façade of behavior so easily that it's almost alarming. What experience did she have in life that made her into such a good actress when she _wanted_ to be?

(Pickpocketing.)

(Surviving the harsh realities of the foster care system in a city overrun with depravity.)

(A certain absence of empathy and removal from her own emotions that makes it easy to pretend.)

Stanley turns in surprise, palm pressed to the butt of the gun hanging from his belt. But he relaxes at seeing a pretty girl who, at first glance, doesn't seem anything more than human. "Lost, little girl?"

Bella half-twists to glance back at Anthony where he is standing awkwardly just over the threshold of the tree line. "Something like that," she answers. "We were wondering if we could ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

Bella smiles. "What business do hunters have in Charmstone?"

"What-"

And while he doesn't have the right perspective to see, he suspects that when Bella looks back to the hunters, her eyes are glowing that eerie, damning silver of magic because each of the hunters draw out their weapons - aiming them right at Bella, and then swinging the barrels toward him when he steps forward with a growl. The shift comes over him slow, like molasses, mostly held back by the skin of his teeth.

Bella is so unflappable, not even flinching at the loaded guns pointed in her direction. "Oh, I'm quivering in my combat boots," she jeers, boldly reaching up to flick Stanley's handgun with her fingernail. At her touch, something happens to the gun, the metal suddenly burning red in the hunter's hands until he drops it with a strangled yell. Bella kicks the gun to the side. "Oops."

Stanley glares, cradling his burnt hands to his chest. There's a glimmer in his eyes, a knowing sort of look as he reassesses Bella that strikes Anthony as rather incongruous to the situation - almost as if he, like Anthony, recognizes the Bella is using magic differently from other magic-users, but unlike Anthony, he seems to already know _why_. Like he knows what Bella is.

Maybe that's why Stanley doesn't hesitate to bark, "Kill them!"

The rapid fire of bullets rips through the air, then abruptly halts when Bella casts another spell that makes the hunters drop their guns, while at the same time the bullets seem to melt mid-air. She hasn't even broken a sweat, standing resolute between the pick-up truck and the hunters, eyes shining brightly. Anthony, having made to dodge bullets smelling strongly of wolfsbane, also pauses, tense and watchful as Bella smiles at Stanley.

"You should leave," she says, then sighs with faux remorse. "But I have a feeling you'll be coming back again, so it's the least I can do to make sure that you won't be coming back for a while."

Stanley sneers. "Ain't afraid of any _beast_ ," he grits between his teeth. "Are we, boys?"

"No beast and no wolf are gonna scare us away," confirms Weber in spite of his quivering chin.

Bella laughs coldly. "Well, isn't that a pretty nickname?" she wonders mockingly -

The crossbow comes from the back, held by Mallory, who must have been hiding behind one of the SUV's when the shooting started because his hands aren't blistered like the others. His aim is steady and quick and for a split second, Anthony flinches, thinking that Mallory is aiming at him -

Mallory is not aiming at him.

He's aiming at Bella.

And he hits his target dead-center, the bolt of the crossbow pounding just beneath Bella's ribs with a splatter of blood, a sound of pain tearing itself from her lips. Bella's balance falters, swaying to the right, and then forwards, until she is on her knees. One hand pressed against the gore of her torso and the blood spreading swiftly from around the bolt, Bella bears her teeth at the hunters.

"You shouldn't have done that," she says around a spittle of blood.

Anthony is frozen - and it's good that he is, because if he had dared to go any closer to Bella, he would have been right in the way of the earth-rumbling eruption that immediately follows the uprising of Bella's magic -

Pulling both hands away from her body, one palm bloodied and the other clean, Bella deftly creates some sort of barely-perceptible magic bubble that shoves _everything_ and _everyone_ away - along with flinging Anthony back into the safety of the tree line and scattering the hunters across pavement for a hundred yards, the force of her magic also upends all of the vehicles. And then twists her bloodied hand to call up a silver-tinged flame in her palm, not sparing a second to spread her fingers and shoot the fire at the underside of the pick-up truck -

The explosion is deafening.

And Anthony -

He can't comprehend what's just happened.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this - it wasn't supposed to happen at all -

The second his equilibrium returns, Anthony staggers to Bella's side, where she is laying face-first in a halo of unmarked ground. Her magic must have protected her from the explosion of the manchineel ash - and now it's obvious how all those packs were burned so completely - but she's still bleeding out, a crossbow bolt protruding from between her right hip and ribs. Important organs are there, right? Anthony can't remember high school biology lessons, he's too frantic with trying to figure out if she's even still alive -

" _Motherfucker_ ," she gasps painfully. Her unfocused gaze flits from where he is hovering over her, placing pressure as best he can around the bolt - should he remove it? - and then beyond his body.

Anthony cocks his head for a second. "They're out cold or dead," he mutters, watching in disbelief as she relaxes at hearing this news. "But Bella, you're -"

Smoke-grey eyes, tinted oddly blue in the raging remains of the manchineel inferno, flutter upward and Bella focuses on him with a glazed determination. "I'll be fine."

"Bella-"

"Pain is a funny thing," she muses, still staring at him intently. "It's like, pain makes you feel alive."

"Bella, that's…" Cynical. Morbid. Fucked up.

He can't believe she's being _philosophical_ now, at the most inopportune moment; and yet he is also taken by a fierce curiosity to know what the hell has happened to her to make her this way. It's like she doesn't even care that she could be dying. Or like she doesn't think that death can touch her.

Anthony's eyes are hot. He tells himself its because of the heat of the flames and the choking smoke of the manchineel ash burning into his lungs. It's a lie, of course, but now isn't the time to be shedding tears over this crazy girl - he needs to move them -

He needs her not to die.

And Bella, it seems, needs to keep talking. "Yeah, I know," she says breathlessly. She licks her bloodstained lips. "But it is what it is…Maybe a better way of putting it is that pain reminds you that you're alive - because if you're hurting, you're still breathing, right?"

"Yeah," he chokes out. Her blood is hot against his hands and coming too fast, but if he wants to move her to a safer place, he'll have to take the pressure off. And if he takes the pressure off, then she bleeds out that much sooner.

He doesn't know what to do. A werewolf could withstand the bolt being taken out; a werewolf would be halfway healed, already.

"I mean, physical pain is your body telling you that something is wrong; emotional pain is the same way," Bella continues, a slurring lag to her speech. "To suffer is to be human. And…especially those like us need those reminders, sometimes."

Anthony glowers down at her. "And sometimes, you need a reminder to live. Tell me how to help. Bella."

Her eyes are closed.

"Bella!" he shouts desperately. "Fuck! _Fuck,_ wake up!"

She can't hear him. She's so pale now, the bronze of her complexion oddly ashen, and she looks so small. Fragile. Breakable.

His every breath hurts.

Anthony swallows thickly, a bob in his throat as he wracks his mind for a solution that won't come - because all he can think about is this girl and her boldness and her vitality and how much he doesn't want their time together to be over - not like this - not when his wolf is howling like this -

Not when he's pretty sure that he's fallen in -

And then suddenly, though the crackle of the flaming truck, Anthony hears a voice say, "Now, alpha-to-be, I don't think shouting demands is anyway to solve your problems. Let me help you."

* * *

 **A/N: My hand slipped. Again.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	117. part 8: 15: round peg, square hole

**fifteen**

 **round peg, square hole**

* * *

Honestly, it's trippy as hell waking up on the astral plane - because, like, aside from her last conscious memory being of a _fucking crossbow bolt_ sticking out of her body with Anthony shouting her name as the world faded dark, Ella's expectation when she opened her eyes next was decidedly _not_ the sight that greeted her.

Translucent and wispy, Black is sitting cross-legged beside her on a vast expanse of blackness that stretches for eons, interspersed occasionally with other vague, smoke-like shapes. Black is the most substantial thing she can see, aside from the _extremely_ solid form of the massive black bear that is looming over his shoulder. It isn't any terrific feat of intuition to realize that Ella's consciousness is _somewhere else_ and that _somewhere else_ is a place where spirit-walking shamans go to scare the shit out of time-traveling magicians.

She also has the incredibly maudlin opportunity to view her physical body and, _really_ , talk about being disconnected from oneself - she's not even in her own damn body. Every fucked up thing that Ella _is_ , is removed from the body she'd been born in. She's literally having an out-of-body experience, hovering over her bloody self and everything.

Black's spirit animal - and of _course_ it's a bear - lumbers in a wide circle as Black turns his void-dark eyes away from Ella's body to - well - Ella's spirit. Strangely, Black's gaze is swallowed up entirely by the darkness of his pupil, like it expanded and gobbled up the white of his eyes. It is a sight that somehow manages to avoid seeming sinister, but only just.

"Am I dying?" The question escapes without her permission, but it is valid. She can't _feel_ anything; no pain, no air, no urge to blink. Nothing physical, just her emotions which are, admittedly, not quite stable at the moment. Understandable. She's in the middle of a near-death experience being mediated by the most cryptic person she's ever had the displeasure of meeting.

Black looks down at her body, and in the astral plane his movements are odd, both being incredibly slow and blurring together. He passes his hand over her physical body. "Not yet," he decides. "I'm doing my best to prevent that very thing from happening."

Ella doesn't frown - because she doesn't have a body to do that, really - but she does feel a swell of apathy. "You don't sound very confident."

Black's lips tilt in consideration. "You aren't the average patient, are you? Out of your own time, taking on hunters, trying to blow yourself up with machineel ash -"

"Wait, how do you know that I'm - I mean - time travel is one hell of a conclusion to jump to, isn't it?"

"I can tell just by looking at your magic," Black responds. Calmly, he passes his palm over the ghostly shadow of her physical body, and as Ella watches from her high-up vantage point, she sees her skin and muscles and bones shimmer away, revealing only the knotted network of her blood vessels and an unrestricted view of blindingly bright silver filling the spaces between veins. Her magic is like the equivalent of a round peg trying to fit into a square hole, like there's _too_ _much magic_ and _not enough Ella_ for it to work, even though it does. She's more magic than anything else; she _is_ magic.

"Your natural pathways are a disaster, by the way. A real unbalance mess."

A flare of annoyance. "Thanks," she says drolly.

Black hums. "Don't take offense. It's remarkable, actually. Not many people can claim to have had their magic bound twice in one lifetime."

Shock, sharp and visceral; outside of the confines of her body, everything thing feels so raw. Too raw. " _What_?"

He blinks those all-black eyes at her, then nods to himself. "You didn't know."

Aggravation colors her tone, the surprise of Black's claim washed away as easily as silt from the shore. "I know that old bitch did some fucked up ritual on me that bound and unbound my magic," she says, realizing too late that she's revealing information that she shouldn't.

But does it matter if the shaman knows the truth? He's actively stopped her from dying by separating her body from her spirit, and by doing so, borrowing time so that her body might heal. If she concentrates hard enough, she can just barely make out a glimmer of a shape on the opposite side of her physical body - Anthony tending to her wounds, staunching the bleeding while Black does his part in reviving her.

(Ella blithely ignores the crest of affection that fills up all her empty spaces at the sight of Anthony trying so valiantly to save her life. More important things to focus on.)

"Yes, I can see that your pathways were forcibly manipulated not too long ago," Black agrees. His open palm stops over a vertical snarl of silver, one of two that she suspects to be where her arms are scarred up. "You can see that here. Look how wide your magic pathways are - blown wide open."

"Okay," she says, and somehow moves closer without moving at all. "But then what's that?" she asks as she stares at a smaller knot sitting right in the dip of her naval.

"Oh, you see it. Good," says Black. "That, magician, is the scarring left from the first time your magic was bound. Probably happened at a very young age. Yes, yes, it was done with care. See how gentle the binding was performed. It hardly left a scar. I sense a mother's touch."

Black's words reverberate through the astral plane. Ella is having a difficult time processing what it is exactly that he's saying. "Are you…are you sure?" she asks, hating how small she sounds.

"Ah," Black pauses. "I suspect I've stumbled across a mine field."

"A bit," she breathes. Ella is reeling.

Black sighs, then passes his palm over all of Ella's silvery blown-wide magical pathways. "Well, as you can see here, for whatever reason, someone - a relation close to you - went through great pains to bind your magic when you were very young. It might have held if you were not so strong. I can see fractures that are still healing from where your magic broke through the bindings, probably right around the time someone began to teach you, I assume."

Magically speaking, Ella has always been a late bloomer - which always struck her as somewhat strange given how strong her magic was, how responsive it could be. But when she'd been younger, it took so much effort for her magic to work, so much so that Ella believed that she was just getting lucky, or that she was just _that good_ at pickpocketing. Her magic had been inconsistent and finicky until Carlisle began to teach her - until she broke the bindings that someone - _her mother_ , Renee - had placed on her.

What an absolute mind fuck.

"As I said," Black continues serenely. "Very remarkable. Do you usually have problems overpowering your spells?"

Ella is jarred out of her twist-tumble thoughts by his question. "Sometimes. Most of the time."

"Interesting. Have you tried casting without a spell to guide you?"

"I…it doesn't always work," she confesses.

"Because you overthink it," Black surmises. "Because you use the wrong emotions to fuel your magic."

"God," she mutters. "You're _obsessed_ with emotions."

"For good reason," he muses. "Emotions are explicitly connected to casting magic, even for those of us with more limits on our power. Your magic, being unbound, doesn't need the crutch of spells. Intention and emotion; instinct; will power; these are your tools."

If she could have, Ella would have rolled her eyes. She's heard the spiel and others like it before, even come to those conclusions by herself, but it's all easier said than done. Insolent, she says, "Great, that's super helpful-"

Black cuts her off. "Of course, that's only useful knowledge to you if I can save your life. That stunt with the hunters was very ill-advised."

"Hey, it got the job done!"

"At what cost, though?" Black wonders, now passing both of his hands over her body. "Your little solution drew a lot of attention. A lot of the wrong kind of attention. Impulsivity is never a good trait. It leads to carelessness and death."

She has no response to that. Instead, she watches the burly black bear continue to amble in a tight circle around Black and her physical body - circle and circle, over and over again. Watchful. Guarding. From other things on the astral plane? She doesn't know for certain, but it's intuition that tells her that spiritwalking is more dangerous that Black's relaxed disposition would have her believe.

"What are you waiting for, magician?" Black says, suddenly more strained than before. "I can't heal you by myself. Whatever lands you are tied to - whatever magic that has saved your life before - is not here, so Magic is just as blind as I am. We need direction."

"I've done some minor healing before, but-"

"Forget everything you know," he says urgently.

"What? Black, no, that isn't-"

"Save your life!" he barks, abruptly lifting his hands from her body. "I have done all that I can. It is up to you now."

"Hey!"

Black and his spirit animal fade away - and then the a fiery, all-consuming ache erupts from her side as she begins to _feel_ again. Ella can feel her soul moving further away from her body, not bound together by a shaman's will anymore, and a gritty determination strikes through her -

Pain -

Like a solar flare, Ella's spirit, her consciousness, the parts that make _her_ are reunited with her body, a blazing lash of her silvery magic casting the shadows out of the astral plane - and then catapulting her into the rude awakening that is the merging of spirit and body -

She's screaming herself hoarse, magic boiling in her blood and coalescing at the wound in her side - healing her with a violent sort of tenacity that is solely _Ella_. This time, it is not Magic that saves her life, that brings her back from the brink of death.

It is herself.

* * *

 **A/N: Three cheers for revelations! Was anyone else wondering why Ella's magic pick-up at the beginning of the story was so erratic? I mean, Carlisle is a druid with no experience teaching magic, so he would have thought it was normal, and Ella was still getting used to the _magic is real_ thing, so she was in the same boat. But if someone else had trained Ella? They might have noticed sooner that her magic was extremely inconsistent before the hag's ritual. Why? Oh, you know, because Renee had to bind Ella's magic when she was a baby _for reasons_. **

**Like, The Order of Mordred reasons.**

 **Cue intrigue. Believe it or not, but this is actually setting up for the next arc!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	118. part 8: 16: let you in

**sixteen**

 **let you in**

* * *

Anthony doesn't have any idea what's going on. Nothing is being explained to him - not that there is a good time to ask, for that matter. Even though time feels like its moving sluggishly since Bella's magic and the manchineel ash sent him ass over head, there doesn't seem to be a spare second to breathe, let alone ask questions.

Black had shown up, offered a place for Bella to recuperate behind the careful cloaking of the shaman's wards, and then before Anthony could so much as step back from placing Bella's limp body onto the thin cot in the middle of Black's strangely sparse cabin, Black had been sitting at her side to go into some kind of fucking trance. Leaving Anthony to stare at them in barely-restrained horror. Bella is bleeding out, maybe dying, and instead of applying first aid, or like, removing the _arrow_ from her side, Black thinks this is a grand time to meditate.

Anthony wastes maybe two minutes pacing, aggravation and anxiety causing him to push his blood-tacky hands through his hair. And that's two minutes too long, because then he's fumbling around the cabin for the kind of things that he's read would be helpful in situations like this. Peroxide, and barring that, hard alcohol. Bandages. A strap of leather for Bella to bite into for the pain - or, wait, does that only apply if she's conscious? He has no idea. He does know that this is a life-threatening injury and, intervention with a shaman or not _, someone_ has to get the crossbow bolt out.

 _It might as well be me_ , he thinks as he stands over the cot, useless-would be first aid in his arms. Caught between stomach-heaving nerves and determination, Anthony kneels around the spread of water, whiskey, and paint-stained rags. His gaze travels between Black's tense brow furrowed in concentration and Bella's slack expression, and then he looks at the metal jutting from her side, a seep of blood that escapes with her every too-heavy breath, with her every too-slow heartbeat.

Anthony is proud to say that he has read hundreds of books in his life, and more than a few of them had been useful in everyday situations, littered with the kind of facts and processes that allowed his vicarious reading experiences to transfer smoothly to reality. But reading about the necessity of pulling an arrow out of a wound and actually going it - especially to _her_ \- are two very different things.

With one hand, he rolls Bella's weight onto the opposite side, getting a good look at the double-barbed end of the bolt; it had broken clear through the other side by about an inch, leaving another six or so inches sticking from beneath her ribs on the other side. He's going to have to pull the bolt all the way through because of the barbed end, but that doesn't mean he has to pull the _entire_ bolt out. Careful not the jostle the wound overmuch, Anthony bends and twists at the metal bolt with all of his strength until the end breaks off.

And then he pulls it out, fingers glancing the ridges of her spine as he drops the broken bolt on the floor, taken anew by panic by the fresh gush of blood that leaves the wound. How much could a person bleed before it was too much? Bella is almost certainly approaching that point now, isn't she? And Black doesn't seem to be making much progress with whatever he's doing, if at all. Hands shaking, Anthony hurries to splash first water and then the whiskey over both sides of the wound, followed by the rags to apply pressure.

He closes his eyes. Listens to her heart.

The cawing of an abnormally large raven draws his attention, prompting him to open his eyes just in time to see Black slump away from the cot. "It's up to her now," says Black, and Anthony is about to protest this declaration, but Bella's familiar caws again. Louder. Both he and Black look at Raven, who has managed to find her way inside the cabin and is tilting her head at Bella with intense focus-

The silver glow starts beneath her skin, somewhere in the center of her chest where her shirt keeps her modesty, and emanates outward - spreading and growing brighter, almost white in its intensity -

And then Bella is screaming, a piercing sound that he hopes to never hear again. But with the scream comes another influx of dazzling magic, swirling white-hot over her wound, before fading back to silver and then to nothing.

Anthony stares at the perfection of her bronze skin from where the rucked-up shirt has exposed the gentle flare of her waist and hips. He's a bit dumbfounded. As much as he'd been hoping that magic could undo what damage the hunters had done, he hadn't thought it would be like this - so quick or flashy or impressive. Bella has healed faster than even an alpha werewolf, faster even than how quickly Anthony has heard faeries heal.

He'd known she was powerful, of course, because that much was obvious. But he'd never thought…

Bella's eyes roll beneath her lids, her fingers twitching, and something unwinds behind Anthony's sternum. She's regaining consciousness. She's going to be okay. She's going to live.

Black shifts to his feet. "I'll just leave you to it."

"Yeah," Anthony agrees mindlessly. He doesn't dare remove his eyes from the girl on the cot and he doesn't spare a second thought to the shaman easing into another room of the cabin.

Bella groans when her eyes finally flutter open. "Oh, my God," she breathes. "That _sucked_."

Anthony doesn't know what he was expecting her first words to be, but something about the _blasé_ quality of his voice ignites a fresh wave of incredulity - of righteous anger - in him and he growls out, "Are you stupid or suicidal?"

She turns her head to stare at him, brows knit pensively. "What's your problem? And why is it so bright in here? God."

Anthony scoffs. "What's _my_ problem? What's _your_ problem?" he demands, rocking onto his feet to resume the agitated pacing he'd given up earlier. The room is small; it only takes three steps in either direction for him to complete a circuit and he longs for the range of the forest, if only it wasn't run down with the aftermath of what Bella has done. "You could have died."

"Well, I didn't," she retorts as she sits up.

"You might have killed those hunters."

"Good."

He spins to face her. "Good? _Good_? It's not good!"

Bella squints at him. "Are you in the middle of some kind of mental breakdown or…?"

Anthony pushes lank curls off his forehead, the past few hours - or longer - hitting him all at once like a ton of bricks. He's let this terror of a girl into his life, into _his heart_ , and suddenly the gravity of what they've been doing feels more real, more urgent, than anything on the planet. "Never mind that you're a time traveler and that you might have just fucked up the entire continuity of the future that you are from," he mutters angrily, glowering down at her. "But you didn't give a second thought to your safety and - and it's not a _joke!_ You safety isn't inconsequential! You aren't expendable!"

An unreadable emotion passes over her face, a softening that is swiftly covered by terseness as she swings her legs over the side of the cot. "You don't know what I am," she says curtly. "You don't even know me. Not really."

Anthony circles closer, his nearness prompting her to stand, as if rising to meet an unspoken challenge. And it's almost laughable, because she's this tiny, steel-spined thing but she makes him feel just as reckless as she acts. "I can tell that you like me," he says lowly.

Bella rolls her eyes. "No, you can't," she says dismissively. "And for the record, no, I don't. I can't stand you, actually."

"Very believable," he praises sarcastically. "Your heart didn't even blip."

"That's because I wasn't lying, asshole."

"But you were," he challenges. They are drawn closer together, two opposite forces in some magnetized thrall. "I know you're lying, even if you don't."

"No, I-"

"You know, werewolves can scent all kinds of things that are incredibly useful," he tells her, taken by a confidence inspired by all of the emotional turbulence that has been building since the moment she appeared in his life. "Your magic, for example, I can tell right before you cast because there's just the smallest scent of lightning. And I can smell your emotions, too. A lot of anger, fear, and sadness. And attraction, that one is real obvious."

Bella bristles, openly scowling at him with a defiant set to her chin. "What are you-"

Anthony leans down, invading her space with a casual ease as his focus centers on her entirely. "You smell sweeter sometimes," he says softly. Their breath mingles as he finishes in a whisper. "And I think that means you _want_ to kiss me, even if you won't let yourself. So, allow me."

And then he kisses her - pressing their lips together, a smooth glide as he catches her full bottom lip between his own, all heat and thudding hearts. His hand moves to cup the side of her face, tilting his head to a better angle, elation thrumming through him as her breath catches when he moves firmer, when her lips slip-slide against his -

Two abnormally hot, small hands push against his chest and Anthony stumbles backward, mouth tingling. Breath coming too quickly, he watches at Bella brings her hand to her mouth with wide eyes, only for her to slap him across the face - just hard enough to sting for the briefest of seconds. Her chest is rising and falling rapidly, lips swollen from his kisses, and she is staring at him as if thunderstruck.

Anthony rubs his cheek, a flash of regret searing through him. What was he thinking? He wasn't thinking, that's the answer. "Bella, I-"

"Oh, hell," she murmurs with shake of her head, brusquely reaching up to curl her fingers around the back of his neck to yank him back down to her level. Their lips meet again, an ardent clash of teeth and lips with her fingers tugging against his curls. The kiss is almost punishing for the back-and-forth, every breath of separation returned with an extra fissure of energy. It's passion and heat and lust. It's her magic quaking through the room, knocking him back into the wood-paneled wall and making the lights flicker. It's his wolf rising to the surface, urging him to push back, to corner her and make her _his_ \- because she _is_ in all the ways that matter.

He could kiss her forever.

He'll be damned if he doesn't get to.

* * *

 **A/N: *coughs awkwardly* Well. That happened. Twice, if we're being technical. Hope it was worth the wait? *sidles away***

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	119. part 8: 17: don't give it a name

**seventeen**

 **don't give it a name**

* * *

The next few days follow with a rush of restless progress; she recuperates, the hunters seemingly disappear, Elisabeth Masen is filled in on what's been going on, and Black agrees to look into sources he has access to so that Ella's little time travel problem can be solved. And through all of it, when she has a moment to herself, her mind back-tracks to the very thing she shouldn't have done.

Probably.

Maybe.

It's perfectly plausible that kissing Anthony Masen in 2015 is a huge mistake. Isn't it? Possibly it is, but then her point of reference is the way Anthony acts toward her in 2018 and he isn't exactly an open book. She has no way of knowing if she changed something until she gets back. It's become apparent to her that her dalliance with time travel is rapidly spinning out of control. The possibility that she has altered something beyond redemption looms over her like a dark cloud and that heated kiss comes to represent the growing pit of anxiety that threatens to overtake her.

She's been making bad decisions - even as she tries to do the right thing.

It might be a curse.

What to do about the hunters? As best she can tell, since the hunters _know_ her in the future, she probably hadn't messed up by showing her face and interacting with them. Until they turn up again, she doesn't know that there is anything she _can_ do, because the hunters being alive in 2018 points to them not being dead after she blew up the manchineel ash. Maybe she scared them off and they really won't return for three years. She kind of hopes that is the case, but she doesn't know. Wracking her brain for any tiny bit of information from the future that she can use results in a huge blank draw of nothingness.

There is, unfortunately, nothing for her to do at the moment except for try to get back home, which is what she should have been doing all along. She's been distracted and that isn't good.

Once she feels like her magic has balanced itself back to what passes as normal for her, Ella tracks back out to the forest with Raven to collect the potion ingredients she'd abandoned earlier. She isn't exactly optimistic about the spell she'd found before, but she's willing to try anything. Following the instructions scrawled into the spellbook, Ella brews up a storm in the dusty kitchen of the blueberry house, trying very hard not to feel incompetent as she chops and stirs and watches the thick substance boil into a shade of dark, dark green.

"Is this right?" she wonders skeptically as she manages to levitate some of the potion into an empty, half-broken tea cup she'd found in one of the cabinets. The concoction seems awfully thick and smells very strongly of grass.

"You won't know until you try," Raven answers, but even she seems doubtful.

It tastes like shit, of course. Truly the worst thing Ella has ever had in her mouth. And after she chokes it down, she tugs on her magic and utters the overly long incantation, not surprised at all when time doesn't hesitate to keep ticking forward. She isn't quite crestfallen that the spell and potion failed; she really hadn't expected it to, so the disappointment is relatively minor. Just one other method of manipulating time that doesn't work. Fine.

 _Fine_.

She doesn't stop trying, though. With a pot full of that nasty potion and the rest of the day ahead of her, Ella has nothing to lose in making multiple attempts. She tries it a few different ways - taking the potion but not saying the spell, saying the spell then taking the potion, saying half the spell and then taking the potion and then the rest of the spell, saying the spell backward, using less potion, using more potion, sipping some of the potion between each word of the spell. With each failure, her frustration begins to mount, more slow-building than usual.

It isn't working. Like, at all.

"Piece of shit," she mutters angrily, tossing the spell book off the counter. She rubs at her temples, trying to think, trying to focus and puzzle out _why_ it isn't working. It's not her magic, but it might be the spell itself, or maybe she made the potion wrong.

Or maybe - as Black suggested - spells like this are a crutch that Ella doesn't _need_.

Ella rolls her shoulders, trying to shake the tension out of her limbs. "Okay," she sighs. She breathes in deep, calling her magic forward, and concentrate on what she wants to happen. She doesn't want to time travel. The goal is to pause time, for the world to go still, for Ella's personal time to be the only thing moving forward.

Failure.

This is something new for Ella - really, it is. Not that magic has always come easy or been done without some struggle, but she can generally rely on a working knowledge and her raw power to make things happen. This should be just like every other magic she's learned. Time should fall to her feet, just like broken bones and the elements.

But - this isn't the _only_ magic she's struggled with, is it? Teleportation is also an issue for her, an obstacle that has proven to be insurmountable.

Ella's lips press together in a thin line. She's a magician. She's got more magic in her than biological tissue. She's related to two of the most famous magicians in _history_. There shouldn't be any magic that is beyond her reach. There shouldn't be any reason why she can't do what she wants to do.

And yet.

What had Black been repeatedly telling her? Ever since she first met him, he'd been going on and on about being honest about her emotions. For whatever reason, Black seems absolutely certain that they key to unlocking the higher magics has to do with her emotions - which is a struggle for more than one reason. When Carlisle had been teaching her, part of learning to perform magic on a whim had relied on understanding runic patterns, and the other had relied on being clear-headed in her emotional stability to cast properly. Over time, Ella has learned that her emotions can be a boon to magic casting, an extra boost that she needs to survive, but in the back of her mind, she's always kept with the notion that her emotional control is more important than anything else.

What had made her time travel in the first place? While Merlin's athame being part of a time loop and dragging her along for the ride is conceivably the reason, Ella also has no reason to write off that the sweeping inferno of her anger at the time didn't also contribute to her arrival in 2015. A perfect storm of circumstances had brought her back to the past, and if she wants to get back to the future, she'll have to do the same thing.

Only she's tried with the athame, and nothing has happened. Maybe part of the problem is that the cause for her violent anger had been absolved.

She'd been mad that Anthony was lying to her - and now that she knows why, she can't hold onto that anger. She would have done the same thing. Understanding this doesn't change the fact that there is no all-consuming anger for her to pull from at the moment. Not after that kiss and all the confusion that comes with it.

And not when she isn't certain that her business in 2015 is finished. She came to this particular time for a _reason_ \- she's sure of it - but she doesn't know why. Really, it can't just be because of the hunters, can it?

Ella slumps against the counter with a groan. She's actually managed to give herself a headache by thinking _too hard_. It's almost funny if it weren't so sad.

"What am I doing?" she asks counter, hand falling listless to the mess of shredded ingredients of a potion that wasn't ever going to work. Her fingers curl into the remnants of plant stems as she is seized by a sudden agitation.

Anger has always been better than uncertainty.

Ella shouts, clearing the counter with a sweep of her arm, relishing in the sound of metal and glass smashing against the floor. She lets herself fall into this vitriol, because it's easier and it feels good and it means she doesn't have to _think_. Her magic flares wildly and the cabinets buckle in on themselves, the glass of the kitchen windows spiderwebbing, then clinking onto the tile, and then twisting into fine grain. Ella's fingers close around the golden hilt of Merlin's athame, which she had used to prepare the potion, and without a breath of hesitation, she flings the knife away -

It travels from the kitchen and embeds itself with a firm _thud_ in the entryway wall just shy of clipping Anthony's nose -

Her heart twists. She almost hit him with a magical knife. Who knows what that could do to a werewolf.

Anthony is staring at her with his mouth barely slackened, one brow higher than the other. "Bad time?"

"Yes," she says curtly, stomping through the debris of her temper tantrum to tug the athame out of the wall. This brings her tantalizingly close to Anthony, to his body heat and the way his eyes follow her lazily. "What are you doing here?"

He holds up a bundle of unfamiliar books that positively stink of magic. "Black found me on campus," he explains, bending to set the books on the foot of the stairs. "Apparently, the answer to your temporal dilemma is in one of those."

Ella snorts. "Temporal dilemma?"

He shrugs, affecting sheepishness she isn't sure he actually feels. "Had English today," he replies, as if its any sort of explanation.

He's standing too close. She has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact, but oddly finds that she doesn't mind being small for once. His height and breadth is exciting in a way it hasn't been before - in a way that she can allow herself to acknowledge.

In a way she can allow her self to _indulge_. She doesn't know what to call the feelings that she has for him - but she does know that she doesn't want to give them a name. Not yet.

Ella's arms snake around his neck, guiding their mouths together in a kiss that quickly builds into something more intense, something that robs the air from her lungs and trickles heat down her spine. He tastes like cinnamon spice and it makes her head spin as she parts her lips, inviting exploration and shared breaths, their chests pressing together as he crowds her against the wall, his backpack thunking onto the floor. Breaking away, he tilts her chin up to traverse the slope of her neck, a low rumble building in his chest -

And then his hands are slipping from her waist, following the curve of her hips as his leg works between her knees - and - and - _and_ inexplicably, Ella's mind is _somewhere else_ \- and it isn't Anthony pressing her deliciously close, but _Duncan_ \- and abruptly, it doesn't feel good anymore. No. No, it doesn't feel good _at all_ -

"Stop!" Panic claws at her mind and she pushes Anthony away with all of her physical strength, her connection to her magic suddenly fizzling in the depths of her distraught gasps.

To his credit, Anthony complies instantly, reddened mouth retreating from her skin. "Bella?" he questions, peering at her in concern.

She can only shake her head at him, backing away into a corner of the foyer so that she can protect her back. She slides down onto the floor, knees pulled protectively to her chest, and squeezes her eyes shut tightly.

She doesn't understand. This hasn't happened before. Of course, the last time she got this close to someone, both she and Vera had been riding the high of faerie dust and Ella's inhibitions had been long gone. And before that - well, there hadn't been _anyone_ she let close to her in the way after escaping Duncan's clutches.

Jesus. She thought she was over this. She thought talking about it in therapy had helped, or whatever.

Guess not.

"Bella," Anthony says. He's careful not to touch her as he kneels down, but his expression is completely stricken. He thinks he did something wrong.

How does she tell him that it wasn't anything that _he_ did? Shame and guilt twists in her deepest corners. "Sorry," she mutters, tucking her chin against her arms and sliding her eyes away.

He is silent for a few moments, seeming to weight his next words. "Did you…want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay."

She looks back at him with no small amount of disbelief. "That's it? I freak out on you and all you say is _okay_?"

He raises his brows. "Should I say something else? Demand answers from you when I have no right to know all your secrets?"

"It's almost disgusting how reasonable you are," she says dully.

"I'm not a complete asshole."

"I know."

She does know. Even brooding and remote and stoic in 2018, Anthony is not a jerk. He's often serious and sometimes ruthlessly pragmatic, but he's, like, inherently _good_. She's never doubted that, even when she was mad at him. Reliable, dependable, silent Anthony Masen - she owes a lot to him, more than he probably realizes now or in the future.

"Something happened to me when I was fifteen," she confesses, struggling to push the words out. "I thought I was over it, but….apparently not. It wasn't anything you did, just…"

"I see." He pauses. "Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?"

"I have a therapist to listen to my sob story," she grouses. "You don't need to hear about it, and you definitely don't need to be concerned about it."

Anthony doesn't appear convinced, but he doesn't say anything to the contrary, which is more than a little relieving.

She's already burdened him with enough as it is.

* * *

 **A/N: Oh, _Ella_. You know, it's recently been pointed out to me that this story is pretty angst, and I've just got to say that going into it, that wasn't my intention, like, _at all_. The angst comes out of nowhere. Or, I guess, the angst isn't intended, but in telling the story, the angst happens anyway. My apologies. I, personally, shy away from reading angst unless I'm PMSing, so kudos to everyone sticking through the dramas!**

 **On another note, I feel that I must address something about the story, as there seems to be some confusion:**

 **Ella's entire narrative, from start to finish, is linear - her story is told in a straight line, from 15 to 16 to 17, to 18, so even though her _time_ is non-linear, her _experiences_ are linear. She cannot remember something she hasn't experienced, so that is why even though Anthony knows her in the future, she doesn't know him from before. It has nothing to do with memory at all. I don't know about anyone else, but I can't _remember_ things that haven't happened to me yet. Same goes for Ella. It's safe to say that all of the 2015 events are now part of her memory going forward, as it would be for any linear narrative...There has never been an issue with Ella's memory. **

**Anyway!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	120. part 8: 18: keeping secrets

**eighteen**

 **keeping secrets**

* * *

With the emergence of the refined senses that come with his slow evolution into an alpha werewolf, Anthony notices that he is being tailed the moment he leaves the house. His escape is partly because Uncle Marcus and his mother have begun to argue in earnest about the next steps that should be taken after Anthony weaves a story about taking action to scare the hunters away - a tale that is only mostly false - and partly because he wants to see Bella.

Even if she might not want to see him.

It haunts him, a little bit, what she had let slip the last time they were together. It wouldn't take a genius to suppose that whatever happened to her when she was fifteen was particularly _physical_ \- and that it had left long-lasting scars. The very thought ignites a burning anger in him that he has never felt before. In the short time that he has known her, Bella has come to mean something very important to Anthony. Something very important to any wolf. And part of him is already withering, knowing that she _has_ to find a way back to her own time -

Better not to think about it. For as long as possible.

Of course, it might be easier if he wasn't being followed - and thus focusing so intently on keeping his secret.

Playing along, Anthony doesn't let himself divert from the path, doesn't let himself give the game away. He continues on, meandering the long-winding trail he has memorized between his home and the blueberry house, hands in his pockets as he plays at being oblivious. All the while, footsteps scuffle along behind him, too close to be inconspicuous. It isn't until he spots the low shrubs of the backyard that he pivots and, in one smooth motion, lunges forward with his unclawed hand curling around a throat to force his stalker against a tree.

"Ben," he growls in irritation. "What do you think you're doing?"

The eldest of Uncle Marcus' children, has spent all twelve years of his life trying to emulate Anthony. He's very much aware that he is an idol for Ben, and for that reason, he should have known that Ben's observation - and eventual mimicry of his every move - would lead them here. Sputtering as Anthony eases his grip, Ben's expression twists. "You've been acting so _weird_ ," he accuses, swiping at Anthony ineffectually, his ire infinitesimal after witnessing Bella's. "I wanted to know why."

"It's not any of your business."

"It is so!" Ben argues, his voice cracking in the middle. " _Everyone_ has been walking on eggshells! There's something that nobody is talking about and I want to know what it is! You know what it is, don't you?"

Anthony hesitates in answering for one moment too long.

"I knew it!" Ben crows. He grins in victory when Anthony slouches backward in disgruntlement. "What is it? Pretty serious if everyone is being so bizarre, right? Even my dad is being more freakishly serial-killerish than usual, and that's saying something."

"You don't need to worry about it," Anthony sighs. His gaze flicks over his shoulder briefly as he says, "It's being taken care of."

Ben eyes him doubtfully. "If that were true, then you wouldn't be acting so squirrelly. And you wouldn't smell like _lying_."

"You can't smell lying," Anthony corrects bleakly, realizing that Ben isn't going to let this go. And since he'll have to maintain cover with Ben, he won't be able to see Bella today. It's hard not to feel crestfallen by that. "You can hear lies and you can scent the chemical releases that are associated with lying, like nerves."

"You still smell like lying," Ben retorts smartly.

Anthony shakes his head, but before he can spit out his response, another voice pipes up from behind him. "You probably smell me. Isn't that how these things work?"

His head snaps to the side to see Bella leaning casually against a tree, a trace of amusement on her face that is so fucking _cute_ he can only stare. Ben stares too, and then he says, "Where did you come from? Who are you?"

Ben's curious demands snap Anthony back into focus, and his admiration turns to exasperated scorn in a second. "You can't just reveal yourself," he snaps at her. Because what is she _thinking_? Really, the list of people who have seen Bella in the past is growing longer than it should be, and that isn't even accounting for the time she'd _run through the town_ and _got caught on camera_.

Of course, Bella's response to him showing her that newspaper the other day had been decidedly uncaring, like she didn't care that there's _proof_ of her being in the past. Or like she already knew there would be a picture? It isn't as if she would _tell_ him if he asked; she plays everything so close to the vest and while he understands it's for a good reason, it doesn't make it any less frustrating.

Bella arches a brow at his tone, then shrugs. She saunters closer, studying Ben just as curiously as Ben is studying her. "Well, it isn't as if he has to remember meeting me," she announces coolly. "I'm sure I could alter his memory, if it makes you feel better."

Recalling her "botched memory spell" threat still _technically_ hanging over his head, Anthony frowns at her. "I don't think so," he says flatly.

"Just offering."

"Rescind the offer."

She slants a bemused smile at him. "You have my word. For now," she adds baldly as she turns a cool eye to Ben. "You can keep a secret, can't you?"

Ben has been watching the volley of their conversation with rapt attention and starts at being addressed so directly. "I can definitely keep a secret," he agrees instantly. And of course he would, because it's obvious enough that _Anthony_ is keeping a secret, so _Ben_ should keep a secret, too.

Anthony rubs the back of his neck, an anxious tic he's never been able to completely thwart. "This is important, Ben," he stresses seriously. "Nobody can find out about her. Nobody _else_."

"So, she's the secret you've been keeping?" Ben clarifies.

Anthony and Bella exchange a weighted look.

"There's _another_ secret?" Ben gapes at him in amazement. "You have to tell me."

"Bella?" Anthony raises his brows, trying to gauge what she thinks about this. She's the one holding all the cards, the one with all the knowledge, and even though it's _his_ family, it's _her_ call. He trusts that she'll make the right one.

There isn't even a flicker of uncertainty in her expression - and it's that sure-footed confidence, that unwavering and unflappable strength, that keeps Anthony coming back like a moth to a flame. Her grey eyes raise to the sky as she turns on her heel. "Fill him in," she says over her shoulder. "He might be useful."

And that is how Ben becomes the keeper of two of the most important secrets Anthony has ever held - the hunters and the time-traveler. Ben handles it with as much grace as can be expected of a twelve-year-old, and in response to his excitement as he wanders restlessly around the interior of the blueberry house, Ella wiggles her fingers with a spark of silver and claims that Ben has been magically sworn to secrecy.

It's a little easier to breathe after that, knowing that someone else shares the burden he's been wearing around his shoulders, even if it is his adolescent cousin. Especially when Anthony is summoned back home by his mother and Uncle Marcus so that Anthony can be sent on another impromptu road trip.

" _We need to check in with all of our allies_ ," Uncle Marcus says over the phone. " _Some packs aren't answering. We leave in an hour. Don't be late._ "

Ice fills the pit of Anthony's stomach and any elation he'd felt just to be around Bella is swiftly doused. He pockets his cell phone and goes back to the kitchen, where Bella is entertaining Ben with various enchanted pieces of trash having an all-out brawl on the kitchen counter. Ben is enraptured and Bella - she is the _softest_ he has ever seen her, almost completely relaxed.

It hits him abruptly this certain truth that he cannot denounce: Bella is good with children. Really good.

"I have to go," he says from the doorway.

Bella tilts her head. "So soon?"

Anthony shifts, refraining from shaking the buzz from his limbs. "Uncle Marcus needs my help…" He pauses now that he has Ben's attention again. He sighs, pushing a hand through his hair. "It'll be a few days, maybe a week. I don't know. We're doing home visits to other packs, see if anyone else has been hit as hard as the Peri Pack."

Bella straightens from her casual lean against the counter. "Be careful," she tells him.

"You too," he says. "Will you keep any eye on things here? I know it's a lot to ask - you have to get home - but -"

Bella cuts him off, seeming to sense how difficult it is for him to even bring it up - but she is the _only_ person capable of keeping his pack safe while the pack enforcer and alpha-in-training are both out of the territory. His mother will be vulnerable and too busy to watch everyone; it's why alphas have left hands in the first place.

"Yeah, that's fine. I can babysit for a while, I guess. No problem," she says. "Go."

In the moment, Anthony wishes that Ben weren't there and watching them interact like a hawk - because he wants nothing more to kiss her again, like something for the road. It is a secret that Ben has not been clued in on, however, and Anthony doesn't even know how he'd begin to even explain the complication that has become his romantic life to anyone, let alone his little cousin.

A lingering look shared between them will have to be enough.

* * *

 **A/N: And that's how Ben finds out!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	121. part 8: 19: galvanize me

**nineteen**

 **galvanize me**

* * *

"Hey, kid, don't touch that," Ella says levelly, summoning the golden knife back from the wall, only to throw it again. Her aim is getting really good and at this point, she has begun to play with the idea of adding spells to the blade each time she throws it just for the sole purpose of making the serrated edge that much more deadly. It would be useful, she thinks, and take up enough of her attention now that Anthony has been gone for almost two weeks - and God only knows what he's found in that time.

Of course, Ella hasn't exactly been _alone_ in all that time. Little Ben Masen has taken it upon himself to be her personal spook, rifling through the collection of books with unbridled excitement. He's overall more swarthy than any other Masen she has ever met, except for the eyes, and he reminds her so strongly of Peter in his demeanor that it almost makes her feel sad, or something.

Ben has stopped marveling over every tiny thing about her by now, thoroughly desensitized after sneaking to the blueberry house after school for the last two weeks of September, so he doesn't stop thumbing through one of the thinner books. "Why? Is it _dangerous_?"

"God." Ella grumbles beneath her breath, walking over to toe at Ben's leg. "You know, I've already looked through those. They're completely useless."

Eyes that still shine with childlike innocence blink up at her. "Really?" he asks with interest. "You read all of them?"

Ella rolls her eyes. "Okay, yeah, I might have skimmed in a few places, but I got the gist."

"You know," Ben starts conversationally. "My teachers always say that you totally miss the context when you scan instead of read. They say its, like, really bad to do that. You miss details, yeah?"

Ella glances at the book in his hand; thin and weathered, with the ruby red leather binding embossed delicately in golden leaves. She remembers flipping through the pages late one night when she couldn't sleep, so its entirely possible she might have missed something. "What did you find?"

Ben lights up at the opportunity to share his newly-learned knowledge, but as he opens his mouth, Ella's familiar bond suddenly screeches into awareness - capturing every ounce of her attention in half a heartbeat.

Raven has been doing patrols for the hunters that Ella cannot, flying high over Charmstone to keep an eye on thing. It's been so quiet. Too quiet, really. Raven wouldn't be telegraphing so much alarm without a very good reason.

 _What is it_? She asks as she turns away from Ben, automatically twisting in the direction of her familiar, like a compass finding true-north.

 _Hunters in the distance_ , Raven says, quickly followed by, _The traveling wolves have just returned. They do not know that they are being followed_.

 _Shit._

 _Indeed_.

There's no way both of these returns are happening by coincidence. Through Raven's eyes, Ella can see that the hunters are traveling quite a bit of a distance further behind, but there is no mistake that they _are_ heading in Charmstone's direction and Ella is the only one that knows. What should she do? It isn't as if she can tap into the ley lines and reinforce the wards to block the hunters away, because she isn't connected to the land in this time. Her options are extremely limited.

 _Where are they going_? _Into town? Or to Anthony's home?_

Raven, perhaps sensing Ella's urgency, has a swift response ready. _The truck appears to be heading toward a house closer to the town line._

The information churns through her mind, trying to match up the location Raven indicates with any places that Ella has visited, either in the past or in the future. She doesn't know the place where Anthony and his Uncle Marcus are going. She doesn't know how to get there with any short cuts - and she doesn't have the time to be waffling, when every second brings the hunters closer to the town.

"Hey, are you even listening to me?" Ben demands grumpily. "You're totally spacing out," he tells her when she spins around, wide-eyed. "Anyway, the answer is in this book, I think. We can talk about it tomorrow, okay? I have to be getting home - it's almost time for dinner -"

Something pings in Ella's mind - something she's been overlooking.

Ella has never heard of any other branches of the Masen family in 2018. As far as she knows, there is Anthony and his siblings and his parents, but she has never heard even a whisper about someone called Marcus or _any_ of the younger siblings that Ben has mentioned over the last weeks.

And she thinks she knows why.

"Ben," she interjects bluntly. "Where do you live?"

Ben squints at her. "What?"

"Where do you live?" she repeats. "Where is your house located? Is it in the forest? Near the town line?"

Ben nods, plainly surprised. "Yeah. How did you know?"

"No," Ella breathes, tugging on the familiar bond. _Raven, are the hunters following them to that house?_

 _Yes._

 _How close are they?_

 _Too close._

"No, no, _no_. Shit."

"What's wrong?" Ben wonders worriedly. "You look all pale. What's happening?"

Ella stares at Ben - so alive, right on the cusp of puberty, and who has been helping here - and makes an utterly rash, probably ill-advised decisions. There is something building in her, a buzzing pull beneath her naval that feels familiar, like the very thing she's spent months and months searching for. She thinks of Peter, of getting to Peter before the ghoul could finish killing him, and then she feels incredibly stupid for the space of a second.

 _Desperation_. That's what she's been missing.

"You need to stay here," Ella says firmly.

Ben stands on coltish limbs. "Wait, what?"

Ella shakes her head, beyond words. She doesn't have the time to spare to talk about the specifics right now, not when she already knows that Ben is the curious sort and has no qualms about acting on that curiosity. She can't take the risk that Ben will follow her. She has the sense that she's about to fight an uphill battle; no sense in making it more difficult. So without answering him, Ella snaps her fingers to cast a sleeping spell, easing Ben's boneless slump onto the floor before spinning on her heel and gathering her magic around her.

 _The hunters have arrived,_ Raven declares. _The wolf calls for you_.

Ella's chest feels tight, like a fist squeezing her heart.

Desperation is the key.

Ella remembers the phantom touch of Anthony's mouth on hers and suddenly feels more desperate than she ever has in her life. Magic like angry bees beneath her skin, Ella searches for an achingly familiar lupine-gold lifeline, and then -

A pop in the ears - a pull behind her naval - one breath, then the next -

In an instant, Ella leaves the living room of the blueberry house and ends up finding her feet beneath her in front of a ranch-style house, right by Anthony's side - and consequentially, right in the middle of a confrontation with the hunters.

"Bella?" Anthony flinches away at her sudden arrival, darting his eyes between her and the hunters and something behind them. He's shifted with fang and claw at the ready and looking so _young_. Panicked. Backed into a corner.

In the space of a breath, Ella survey's the scene, trying to get a handle on the type of crisis she's just popped into, even with the dizzy rush of her magic twirling around her head from successfully teleporting.

Stanley's crew, many of them still sporting injuries from the last time they'd met, have the house surrounded. Somehow, Marcus seems to be trapped on his front porch; inside, Ella can hear a commotion of people, a woman's voice and young children yelling in askance and Marcus doing his best to keep them calm, even as he glares down at the hunters. There is a thin line of dark, grainy ash circling the house, and she realizes with a start that it's the manchineel ash that is acting as a barrier to keep Marcus - and his family - trapped.

It's sheer luck that Anthony hadn't crossed that line of ash; he missed it by _inches_.

"Was wonderin' when you was goin' to show up, beastie," Stanley jeers. He doesn't seem the least bit surprised that Ella has essentially shown up out of thin air, which would be highly suspicious if there wasn't such an obvious threat hanging in the air. "See, we got us a head start. Yours ain't the first familiar we've seen, no it is not. All your type work the same, don't you?"

Stanley is almost bragging. The hunters have the upper hand and they _know_ it.

Ella knows it, too. Deep in her bones.

There isn't a Marcus Masen in the future.

This is why - because Ella was too late, too slow, and the odds are too stacked against them. She cannot take on the hunters and the manchineel ash at the same time. With that epiphany - gut churning as it is - all of Ella's priorities shift. First, it had been about saving all the werewolves from the hunters; then, it had been about getting to these werewolves before the hunters; now, all of her energy is focused on the life of one werewolf.

On the only person she _knows_ makes it to the future.

Even for as inscrutable as she tries to keep her expression, there must be some sort of tip-off because Stanley's gun swings toward her unerringly. "Yeah, yeah, you see it now, don't you? That's why you're a beast, because you'd make the call nobody else would. Knew it the first time I saw you." Stanley spits at her feet, then grins madly when Ella's stance shifts, her palms shimmering with magic. "How fast do you think you can be, beast?"

"Faster than you," she returns lowly.

Ella spreads tendrils of magic around, preparing for what is to come.

Stanley chortles. "An abomination, faster than me? No, no, I don't think so."

It all ends up happening in the blink of an eye -

One of the hunters lights the manchineel ash, the blaze speeding around the house and forcing Marcus to jump back from the violent flare. The fire rages, but slowly; the hunters haven't used a large amount, so the burning of the house is down at a slow crawl, edging inward almost lazily, which is something of a relief.

But then, a gun is going off - Stanley's - and the bullet is aimed right for _Anthony_. Ella doesn't waste time deflecting the bullet when there is a surge of desperation that allows her to hook her arm around Anthony's and pop them up on the opposite side of the front yard, placing them behind the hunters.

Stanley is savvy, though, and smarter than the others. He spins around and lets out a barrage of bullets, which is swiftly followed by the other hunters, and by that time, Anthony has caught up with what is happening because he lunges forward with a roar tearing from his throat.

Beyond the fire curling in on the house, Marcus has disappeared inside.

Ella pushes out her magic with her teeth grit together, summarily knocking down all the hunters as Anthony fights his way closer to the house. But his determination is useless when he encounters the porch and the barrier he cannot cross.

"Come on!" he shouts, beating against flames that continue to push him backward.

Merlin's athame claps into the palm of her hand, and she lets the blade loose, blindly - but not optimistically - hoping that the magic imbued in the blade will cut through the manchineel ash. It does not. All that gambit results in is the blade bouncing backward from the fiery barrier, clipping Anthony's face - he shouts in abrupt agony, hand held to his face as he falls backward - and promptly disappears somewhere in the smoke.

Ella is fuming.

There is no way to win this, she knows that now, but that doesn't mean it doesn't piss her off that it's happening in the first place. She turns her attention to trying to break down the fire, but whatever spells were used in creating the ash seems to feed off her magic, and all she accomplishes is making the flames burn brighter and higher.

The sound of crying children does not last long, however, as Stanley has staggered to his feet in her distraction - and in one vicious move, he throws an entire package of manchineel ash toward the house -

The explosion knocks everyone backward.

The ringing in her ears, the disorientation, the blood seeping from her head, and the pain from being blown backward all fades into the background. Ella divorces herself from it, a whirlwind of righteousness bidding her to stand, to move, to plant the sole of her boot against Stanley's throat.

She can see his lifeline.

Eyes blazing, Ella's magic grasps at the dull thread, and _twists_ mercilessly -

Stanley is dead before he can even suffer for his crimes.

She pauses, looking at the hunters laying so still in the shadows of flames. Does she kill them? Stanley is the ring leader, the one who finished off a defenseless family before Ella could really _try_ \- even if it was hopeless - and she'd killed him without a second of hesitation. The rest of them are different, though; they know her in the future, Mallory and Weber, and they have a supplier that has _made_ a massacre like this possible.

She needs to know who that supplier is.

Bile rises in her throat. She has to let them live. For now, at least.

"No!" Anthony chokes out, rolling onto his knees. His eyes are locked on the inferno of the house, on the sound of crackling wood and the whoosh of fire and _nothing else_. "No, they can't be -"

He coughs, spitting up blood. It's the smoke that comes from the ash, doing something to creature constitution that Ella is strangely exempt from. She goes to him, tugging him away from the house without thinking too much about it, and he lets her - lost in shock, probably. There is blood dripping down the side of his face, the wound made by the blade that will scar him for life.

"I'm sorry," she says, stepping back.

Anthony's eyes are wet, but he isn't crying. His mouth works soundlessly. "I don't…what… _why_?"

She tries to explain. "The fire feeds off magic…I couldn't stop it without making it worse." Ella's lip curls away from her teeth. "I should have killed Stanley first. I should have-"

"Stop."

Her teeth click together.

Anthony exhales shakily. "Did you know?"

She winces, directs her gaze to the ground. "Not really," she hedges. "I didn't realize until today…until I realized I didn't know Marcus…"

"They're all gone," he says dully, bringing a hand up to his heart. Having some understanding of the way pack bonds work, Ella wonders if he's feeling the sudden absence of those bonds.

"I-I can get rid of the hunters," she offers wildly, only belatedly realizing that it's a really shitty way of trying to make up for such an abysmal failure.

Anthony stares at her.

Ella doesn't know what to say. Comforting people isn't her thing - she doesn't really have the empathy for it, she doesn't think - and her throat feels tight with guilt. She always fails when it matters the most, with Jane, with Peter, with Vera, with herself. And now with Anthony.

"You should go," he says after a long moment. His back is to the burning house, like he can't bring himself to look at it. "My mother…"

Right. Elisabeth Masen can't see her.

Even now, he's thinking about keeping the tune of the time line, putting her first when he _shouldn't_.

She doesn't deserve that kind of consideration. Not from him. Not after this.

Ella dithers for a moment, wanting to say _something_ , but no words come.

It isn't until she teleports right back into the blueberry house that she realizes the task of breaking the news to Ben has fallen on her shoulders.

Ben blames Ella.

He's right.

* * *

 **A/N: For anyone who guessed Uncle Marcus wasn't going to make it, _bravo_. I just seem to be killing characters left and right in this story, but all death serves a purpose. That said, after actually writing Marcus, I didn't _want_ to kill him, but I kind of had to after writing that interlude that Ben was in - and I'm good at sticking to a plan.**

 **It's possible I should have put a warning of some kind on this chapter.**

 **Good thing I didn't post this one on Christmas, though, right? *nervous smile***

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	122. part 8: 20: funeral march

**twenty**

 **funeral march**

* * *

Ben blames Bella.

He's wrong.

The funeral for Uncle Marcus, Aunt Didi, and their three youngest children falls on the first chilly, sunny October morning and it is as he is watching caskets be lowered into the ground that Anthony arrives at an indubitable conclusion.

This was meant to happen.

It's the sort of private thought people have to comfort themselves in times of stress, especially in times of grief. _It was their time_ , they'll say, and its always struck him as a callous remark. Heartless, in a way, like by saying that it's undermining the weight of grief that follows people like a pall in the air. Now, though, he understands it. He accepts it, even.

This was meant to happen. It would have happened with or without Bella's presence in the past, because the hunters were obviously targeting Charmstone, or at least the wolves in the town. He knows that because he overheard it during that first surveillance of the hunters. The pack was going to burn. If anything, Bella's hardheaded interference might have saved lives - with the death of their leader, the hunters seem to have run scared and disappeared, meaning they wouldn't get a chance to try to finish the job with the rest of the pack, and that saving grace is _completely_ attributed to Bella.

But how can he tell his twelve-year-old cousin that his survival is owed to the very person who he blames? How can he try to comfort Ben by telling him that the arson committed against his family was inevitable - predestined, even.

He can't. Not yet, anyway. Ben is a walking wound, torn open and still bleeding, and there isn't anything Anthony can say to make any of it better. The rest of his family is similarly shaken, as if the pack, and that isn't even taking into account the ramifications of Uncle Marcus' death - namely that it is now Anthony's duty to his pack to become the enforcer, at the very least until a suitable replacement can be trained.

It almost doesn't feel _real_.

But it is - achingly real and traumatizing and he feels so warped for even trying to find reason amid all this grief, but there it is, grasping him firmly and refusing to let him run from rationalized truth.

Ben may blame Bella, but Anthony does not. Cannot. Won't.

None of it was her fault. He believes that she was telling the truth, that she didn't know until it happened, that she didn't realize - he believes her scent, her heart beat, and that wretched helplessness in her eyes.

He's known her for little over a month, though, and if he understands her at all, he suspects that she will be blaming herself for this. It is that unexpected twist to her personality - a certain type of complex that makes her take on responsibilities and faults that do not belong to her - that has made it so easy for him to admire her.

Admire is not the right word, but now is also not the time.

The priest finishes reading the last rites and over the gentle slop of the hill, a melancholy blare of trumpets sound as they play the funeral march. Standing beside Ben, Anthony's hand falls onto his cousin's thin shoulder - and Ben shakes him off with a snarl, flashing eyes at him before stepping away.

Anthony stares after him.

Ben blames him, too.

* * *

 **A/N: Just wrapping up this sub-plot...**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	123. part 8: 21: regret is a strange thing

**twenty one**

 **regret is a strange thing**

* * *

It's October 3, 2015 and Ella is barely anything more than a veritable maelstrom of guilt and seething self-recrimination. There is a queasiness in her stomach that refuses to leave; her magic is a tumultuous tide, responding to each nuance of her emotions and thoughts.

Two days have passed since the funeral that was always supposed to happen, five have passed since she last saw Anthony and Ben, and now Ella finds herself on the doorstep of the only person who she thinks can counsel her during this time - because she needs to talk to someone and Raven has a tendency to reflect what Ella wants to hear, not necessarily what she _needs_ to hear.

Black will not ever be Ella's first choice, but the shaman has been helpful in this past-present Ella is stuck in. When she pops into place in front of his cabin, it only takes him a few moments to notice her presence and open the door. He crosses his arms over his chest, staring at her with impassive, dark eyes, and waits with an endless air of patience.

There is a lot that Ella wants to say - tons that she needs to get off her chest. She's lost Merlin's athame, as it was not recovered from the charred remains of Marcus' home, and she suspects that the knife itself is in a timeloop that she has unwittingly been dragged into; she and Raven have decided that the hag was probably drawn to the scene of the massacre and found the blade already, before Ella had a chance. Probably as it was always meant to happen, really, and there isn't anything she can do about that. So even as _that_ particular failure slithers into her mind, she isn't hear to talk about that; there isn't any point. She could talk about the recent deaths in Charmstone, she supposes, but her involvement in the situation feels too taboo to speak about so openly. Ella has already decided that she must come to terms with the inevitability of it all by herself, and she's been able to make some headway in that area by going around the perimeter of the town line and painstakingly carving sigils into trees to prevent manchineel ash from ever being brought through the borders again. Late in the night, she'd taken great effort to carve more complex sigils into a ward matrix around the Masen house and pack territory to protect them from hunters ever getting so close a second time. It is part penance, she thinks, and also partly because she recalls the magic she'd sensed around the pack territory in 2018.

Things have come full circle, as they were meant to, and yet Ella is still here.

She still cannot bring herself to leave.

"I want to do something that might be very stupid," she confesses, mind roving over the date again and again.

Black's paint-streaked hair shifts over his shoulder, and again she is struck by his agelessness, where he seems both young and impossibly old at the same time. "Time is a strange thing, isn't it?" Black wonders with a thoughtful hum. "The present is a fleeting moment and we are forever stuck between past and future, all hinging on the passage of a single second. One moment of change has such incredible potential. Whatever you feel the urge to do, I wonder, is it possible that you have already done it - before you knew that your past would come before your future, but while you were not in this present moment?"

"I don't know," she mutters, hands fisted into the deep pockets of her leather jacket, nails digging crimson half-circles into her palms. "Maybe."

"Then perhaps you might ask yourself this," Black intones wisely. "Will you live to regret not acting on this desire?"

Ella's gaze falls to the toes of her boots, and she remains silent.

"You remain in a time that is not your own for reasons that are solely yours," he says. "But if you did have any regrets, this is an excellent opportunity to address them."

Disbelief causes Ella to look up at him with starkness. "Deliberately mess with time? More than I already have?"

"Do you think you are so powerful that Time itself will allow you to truly change what will come to pass?" Black's lips twist into a smirk. "I say, what an ego you must possess."

Ella sneers - but the suggestion plants itself firmly in her mind, feeling exactly like permission to do what she wants. "I don't know why I came here," she mutters.

Black shrugs. "Feel free to leave, then."

Ella does, spinning on her heel and landing back in the blueberry house, ears popping as the air resettles around her displacement. Now that she knows how to utilize her desperation - that _need_ to be _anywhere but here_ that she carries with her from her childhood - teleportation comes with an ease that is breathtaking. As long as she has been there before or has a lifeline to follow, Ella is relatively sure that Ella could cross great distances with barely more than a thought. But there is no joy in the magic, just as there is very little joy in the magics she regularly uses.

The elation that first came with learning magic, with the first revelation that Ella _is_ magic, has long-since faded and become near-forgotten. So much has happened and she is _tired_ , a bone-deep world weariness. She feels quite old, aged beyond her years.

She still wants to do something stupid. She only has 10 days before its really too late - because Black is right. Ella has one particular regret from 2015 and the opportunity to deal with it is rapidly coming to a close. If she can do something, then she should, no matter how stupid - or ill-advised or half-baked - it is.

Her mind is made up by the time Anthony comes searching for her. It is late enough that the setting sun brings out reddish gleams to his burnt toffee curls, darkening the sleepless shadows beneath his eyes. Werewolf constitution does not allow his grief to show freely on his face, except for the tension held in his mouth and jaw, and the bleakness in his steady gaze. Having invited himself inside the blueberry house, Anthony stops short at sighting her standing at the foot of the stairs, the duffle bag he once delivered looped over her shoulder.

"You're leaving?"

Her heart clenches at the flatness in his tone and instead of meeting his stare, she redirects her eyes to the cobwebs forming on the ceiling. "Sort of."

"Sort of?" he parrots. Then, his next words come out with a bite of anger. "You can't just _sort of_ leave. Either you stay or you go, but you don't do both. You can't do both."

"Fine," she sighs. Her neck drops forward, chin parallel with the floor as she fixes her eyes stubbornly on the clenching tic of his jaw, not quite able to look him in the eye. Not quite yet. "Then I'm going, but I'm coming back before I leave for good."

Anthony scoffs. "What's the point? Why not just leave now if that's what you're going to do?"

Ella flinches. She deserves the anger he is expressing, she knows this, but it doesn't mean that having that anger directed at her isn't hurtful in some way. This youthful Anthony has so far been free of the tinge of bitterness his future self carries; it's like a lance to the belly to learn _why_ he is so jaded in the future, why he is scarred now, forever marked by meeting her and by her magic in equal measure.

"Regret is a strange thing," she murmurs after a beat. She nods to herself, finally meeting the heavy layer of grief glazed along his gaze. "I've been here, in the past, for too long and until today, I didn't know what was keeping me here. At first, I thought maybe it was the knife or the hunters, but both of those things are fixed in time, aren't they? I can't touch them. I can't change them. But…there is something I can change, a regret that's been hounding me for three years, almost to the day."

"What is it?" The question is hushed, as if he is hesitant to discourage her from airing her thoughts, and she thinks she knows him well enough by now - in the past and in the future - to understand that he wants to hear the shadowy thoughts slinking through her mind. "What can you change?"

Ella drops the duffle bag at her feet. "You remember when I said something happened to me when I was fifteen? I know it isn't really the best time, given the circumstances, but I'm ready to talk about it now. I…trust you to know about this."

And she is right to trust him. Even as fury burns along his lifeline at hearing about Duncan - about that house and Jane and that night - and even with his own grief weighing him down, Anthony maintains a respectful silence. For her, it is easier to talk about her shitty orphan sob-story to him than to anyone else, like instead of exposing herself, she is instead sharing her burden and the darkness that is in her heart.

He is silent when she is done, but if she expected him to look at her any differently after hearing that she abandoned Jane and ran away - like a coward - than she is sorely disappointed. It is a staggering relief, leaving a bittersweet taste in her mouth.

"Regret is a strange thing," she repeats. Sometime over the course of her tale, both of them had come to sit side-by-side on the floor, backs against the wall. She has her knees pulled to her chest, head lolling to the side to study the angles of his profile as he stares forward fixedly. "I have a lot of regrets right now. I regret that I let you believe I could stop any of this from happening, that I let Ben believe in me, and that everything turned out to be so fucking awful anyway. I'm so sorry about all that has happened…"

Anthony shakes his head with a severe frown. "Bella, that isn't your fault-"

"You know," she interjects bleakly. "This is a pretty good life lesson. You shouldn't ever put your belief into anyone. All people do is let each other down. You get your hopes up, and then you're disappointed. Especially if you're putting your belief into someone like me. I never quite measure up, it seems."

"You tried your best," he counters firmly. "You couldn't have known - you didn't know - how things would end with the hunters."

"That isn't the point," she tells him.

"Then what is?"

She sighs. "Regret is the point. I have so many and this is just the newest one."

Anthony screws his mouth shut against the argument that seems to be on the tip of his tongue. He jerks his chin to the duffle bag. "But you said there's a regret that you can change."

"I have a unique opportunity," she agrees. Lightly, she lays her hand over the back of his, studying the contrast between their complexions and how much longer his fingers are compared to hers. "I can't change what's going to happen, what's _already_ happened, but I can try to change what happens afterward."

Anthony's hand turns over beneath hers, their palms pressing together as their fingers tangle. He squeezes her hand and she can feel her magic almost _singing_ in response. He is unbelievably gentle when he presses a kiss to her cheek, as if she is a thing made of breakable glass instead of broken shards, and her resolve strengthens.

She places a kiss on his brow, right over the shiny pink scar that her magic and Merlin's lost athame has left. "I'll be back to say good-bye," she whispers, reluctantly pulling away.

He watches as she stands, dusting off her clothes and bending to pick up the duffle bag. "I'm holding you to that."

Ella nods, smiling for the briefest moment before she pops out of the blueberry house -

And lands in New York City.

* * *

 **A/N: These kids are just _so_ made for each other. Look at them, supporting each other, understanding one another and all that stuff. Ain't love grand? **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	124. part 8: 22: jane

**twenty two**

 **jane**

* * *

The house is just the same as she remembers it, prison-like with its chainlink fence and the flickering bulb on the porch and the mold climbing up the windowsills. The metal trashcan on the curb is filled with glass beer bottles and junk mail is piled near the front door. Through the partially opened curtains in the front window, there is a glow of television light, and even with the house closed up tight, she can hear Duncan and his wife, Patty, arguing about the bills, or some other bullshit. There is no sign that this lone house in Queens, packed tightly on either side with fire escapes and abandoned clothes lines, is a foster home for children.

"A goddamn hellhole," she laments. Not for the first time, she wonders how a place like this could have ever been approved to place foster children, or how people like Duncan and Patty could be allowed to be foster parents. A giant crack in the system is what it is and a surge of old-hurt hate wells up inside of her, the kind of fury that encases the heart in ice.

 _Easy_ , Raven advises coolly.

Ella exhales, easing back into the shadows across the street, her eyes locked on the house. Her vigilant watch begins now - as does her restraint in intervening too soon. It could be argued, of course, that Ella could have waited until the day where her past self drags Jane away to the hospital, that she could have stewed in the blueberry house instead of a chilly alleyway. But something about that seems insincere. Ella isn't particularly _thrilled_ about reliving some of the worst moments of her life and viewing them from an outsider's perspective, but she _needs_ to. She has to be able to honestly justify her anger and the urge that is growing in the back of her mind.

She watches, cloaking herself in magic warmth and shadow. Over the course of the next week, Ella observes the house and all that inhabit it from as many angles as possible.

Patty, she thinks, is innocent of everything. Sure, her husband is a pedophiliac piece of utter shit, but all the woman ever does is work, and sleep, and worry about bills. Patty is the one that lugs home paper bags of groceries after work, tiredly opening cans of soup into a pot on the stove and cleaning up after Duncan. The tiredness in Patty is something that Ella never saw when she was younger, something that she mulishly ignored.

Duncan, on the other hand, is no better and no worse than she remembers. Watching him pour beer after beer down his throat stokes a sense of shame within Ella - because of how she'd coped after the hag, a behavior she'd obviously learned _here_ and something that makes her sick. She doesn't like that she's internalized anything of this monster, with his hairy arms and red face and beer gut. It is Duncan that she watches the most, viewing him through Raven's eyes as he sleeps and drinks and watches that stupid television. She isn't surprised to find that during the day, when Patty is gone to work and Jane and Ella have disappeared to school, that Duncan lazes around the house, unless he is otherwise occupied in running down to the cornerstore to gamble lotto tickets and trade paper packages - drugs - with one of his wasteoid associates.

This is a man that she well and truly hates - and she is not apologetic for it in the slightest. Especially as she watches with new eyes as Duncan's hand lingers a beat too long on her younger self, or the way Jane cringes into herself the moment Duncan's glassy eyes turn onto her.

As the week passes, Ella ventures nearer to the house, willing herself hidden from perception. She can see her younger self, fifteen and too thin, deliberately sitting outside in the slow-cooling night on the fire escape to find some peace, to find an escape from this terrible reality. She can sense the magic in her fifteen-year-old self, too - barely the tip of her magical potential awake, the rest of it buried deep, deep down, like the bottom of an iceberg is it bound so tightly. Bound by her mother, she now knows, for reasons that Ella is still ignorant of.

But of all of those in the house, Ella pays the most attention to Jane.

Bile rises in her throat each time Jane is cornered by Duncan, who lays in wait to put accost Jane anytime she ventures outside of the second bedroom. She is so thin, and so pretty - just like a doll - but she is also so very broken. A creature that has lost all hope. Jane is so quiet, even as she cries, that it is no wonder Ella didn't realize what was happening right beneath her nose. Jane keeps it so hidden.

There is a strength in that, Ella knows, but it is not a strength that Jane should have to cultivate.

Ella bites her lip until it bleeds to fight against the urge to storm the house and remove Duncan from the equation all together. She _can't_ \- because no matter how much she may want to intervene, Ella has already learned that what has happened cannot be altered. Events in time are _fixed_.

Hopefully that also means that Ella's current actions were always meant to happen. She's banking on it. She doesn't know what she'll do if all this waiting and observation leads to her hands _still_ being tied. But she figures this is why she can't make herself leave the past just yet - because she has unfinished business, some closure that needs to happen that was always _meant_ to happen because it was always _going_ to happen.

Through Raven's eyes, Ella can see Jane quieting her sobs into her pillow at night, and loathing closes like a fist deep in her belly, right alongside a reckless sort of determination.

She can't change what's happening now - but she can damn well change the future.

The fateful day is October 13th.

Ella watches passively from the shadows as it all happens. Duncan opens the door for his friend; Jane leaves for the bathroom to never return, caught and forced to share the sanctity of her body; Ella's younger self noticing Jane's prolonged absence, going down stairs, picking a physical fight with Duncan and being strangled against the wall; the implosion of her magic breaking through the bindings placed on her power, shattering glass and obliterating electricity and rendering those vile men unconscious; and then her younger self mustering determination, pulling Jane up and out of that house, running away on bare feet.

She exhales slowly the moment the house falls silent and once her past self and Jane have gone, Ella drops the cloak of magic around her - liberated at last. Crawling up her spine is rage, warming her like an old friend as she slinks into the house through the back door, boots crunching on glass and splintered wood.

 _You cannot come back from this,_ Raven warns gravely through their link.

Ella ignores the censure of her familiar. _Good_ , she decides grimly. Magic crackles along her palms as she glides through the house, silent as death, to stare down at the destruction her past self has left - not nearly as impressive as what Ella knows herself to be capable of now.

She has eyes only for Duncan, paying no mind to the nameless friend knocked out cold on the other side of the room. Ella crouches down at Duncan's side and snaps her fingers in his face, a magical zap of energy to wake him up. His eyes peel open, then widen in alarm as he notices her leaning over him, nose wrinkled at the foul scent of alcohol on his breath.

"Oh, you're awake. Great," she says dryly, not bothering to hide the shine of silver in her eyes.

"Yo-you're -" he stutters, up on elbows as he slides away without coordination. He's noticed that she's a bit different than when he last saw her just scant minutes before - slimmer in the cheeks with the absence of baby fat and short hair brushing against her jaw, clothed in leather and bathed in the silver-white of her magic curling from the magician's glass on her fingers. The only thing about her that has not changed, she thinks, is the steel in her spine - the very thing that Duncan and others before him and since have tried so very hard to bend.

But the only will Ella has ever recognized is her own.

Her smile is slow, a thin razor-sharp thing that is all teeth. "Hello, Duncan. I'd say it's nice seeing you again, but that would be a lie and I'm trying very hard to be honest these days."

Duncan sputters, sweat gathering along his hairline. "Wha-what the fuck? Fuckin' freak," he accuses angrily. "What did'ya do?"

Ella reaches out, tracing a single finger over one of the scratches her fifteen-year-old self has left on his arms, and even though her stomach turns to touch a disgusting pig like Duncan, it is worth it for the naked fear in his eyes that blooms when her magic delivers a jolt of electricity. "Freak isn't a very nice word," she tells him as she stands. Ella stares down at Duncan, wondering at how she ever feared this man, even for a moment. He is nothing except a stain on humanity.

"'s true," he grunts. "Always knew you was a freak."

Ella raises a brow. "You're a child molester and a rapist and a drunk," she says baldly. "I really don't think you have any room to judge, _Dunn_ , do you? Ah, ah, wait - I don't want you to actually answer," she interrupts with another zing of electricity.

Ella figures it's a good thing that she isn't moved in any way by the way Duncan cries out in pain - it means that she isn't completely lost to the darkness inside, the vengeance that is demanding recognition, the justice that is calling to be executed. All of her waiting and seething and stewing falls to the wayside now that Duncan is quivering at her feet. He isn't worth it.

But he also doesn't deserve the chance to do another what he has already done to Jane.

Ella cannot have that weighing on her conscience.

Is it immoral to use her magic like this, one someone who doesn't have a chance in hell of defending himself from it? Probably. Under any other circumstances, Ella might spare a second thought to doing this to a powerless, sniveling _, weak_ human. But these are special circumstances and Duncan has earned his fate. Ella has killed before - in self-defense by and large - but she takes a certain savage satisfaction in watching the light fade from Duncan's eyes when she tears his gritty lifeline in two.

It is worth the black mark on her soul, this kill in cold-blood, and Ella feels no remorse for it.

She sparks a fire from the exploded television to cover her tracks. Whether or not Duncan's friend makes it out of the blazing house is no concern of hers, and the fleeting worry that The Coterie would link her to this destruction is quickly stamped out. If ever there was a perfect murder, it is this one.

But ridding the world of Duncan is not the reason she stayed in the past for this long. Not really.

Three steps out of the slow-burning house, Ella teleports to the hospital where she knows Jane will be, certain that Raven is more than capable enough of tracking Ella down. That is the plan, after all.

Ella cloaks herself in magic as she strides into the hospital, picking through the tangled cords weaving in front of her eyes until she spots the pale blue lifeline she has familiarized herself with over the past ten days. She waits patiently as Jane is attended to by a kindly nurse and a female doctor who is careful not to ask too many questions; she does her best not to overhear all that Jane has suffered and follows, invisible and silent, as Jane is fully admitted from the emergency room to the hospital proper. A new nurse is assigned to Jane and once the girl is made comfortable, the nurse bustles off to contact Child Protective Services, as per hospital protocol.

And that is when Ella strikes, casually erecting a ward around Jane's room for silence and to discourage others from approaching - at least temporarily. Ella gathers herself and takes a deep breath, then, allowing herself to be revealed as she steps into the room.

Jane looks frail and pallid, hooked up to an IV bag and monitoring machines, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. She is shivering beneath the two blankets that cover her, thoroughly shaken by the assault and the ensuing escape. And when she notices Ella come into the room, her cornflower blue eyes wide and round, a feeling of shame cuts deep into Ella's chest.

 _I shouldn't have just left her here_ , she thinks guiltily.

Tears well in Jane's eyes, her lips trembling, the bruises on her face already blossoming stark purple-blue. "Ella? Is that…are you Ella?"

Unable to find speech, Ella can only dip her head in affirmation.

"How?" Jane breathes. "You were just…and I…You look so different…"

"It's a long story," Ella manages. She steps forward with care, a fissure in her heart as Jane cries openly. "You know you're safe now, right? You don't have to go back there. Ever."

Jane nods shakily, wiping ineffectually at her cheeks. "I-I know. It'll b-be on my file and on D-Dunca-"

"He's dead and you don't ever have to speak his name again, let alone worry about him," Ella cuts in, abrupt and without grace.

Jane's breath catches. She searches Ella's face, mouth going slack. "…Did you…?"

"Yes," Ella answers blackly. "Because he was a monster for what he did to you and because I should have realized it sooner. I'll never forgive myself for that, Jane. I'm sorry I didn't save you."

Jane shakes her head in denial. "It wasn't your job to save me." Jane's hands cover her mouth, muffling the sobs that spill from her rosebud mouth. Shoulders quivering, she eventually manages to find her voice amid her tears. "I-I don't why I'm…I shouldn't be so _relieved_ , but I am, Ella - I _am,_ I _am_ relieved that y-you…you killed him for m-me…"

Ella's eyes are burning as she locks her jaw, fighting against the tears threatening to escape. "And for me," she whispers. "And for whoever came before us, and whoever would come after. He had to be stopped."

Jane quiets after a while, a dim light sparking in her eyes, and Ella exhales heavily.

"I came here to offer you something," she says.

Jane tilts her head curiously, sniffling. "What more could you possibly offer?"

"A chance to forget," Ella says simply. "I can take those memories from you so you'll never have to suffer remembering what happened, so you won't ever be haunted by the ghost of his sins against you. I can make you forget and you can live your life, free and unscarred from this - happy."

"How?" Jane asks again.

"Magic." Ella shrugs her shoulders, hiding her shaking hands in her jacket pockets. "What do you say?"

The delicate arch of Jane's brow knits together for several long moments, and then she shakes her head. "No…I don't think I want to forget."

Ella's shock is plain on her face. "What? Why?"

Jane's shoulders straighten. "If you made me forget about this, then I would never know that I am a survivor. I don't want to forget the strength that you showed me tonight, Ella. I…didn't know I could be capable of surviving until you showed me how when we were running away. Please, I…I need to know that I can be strong, that I can survive. I don't want to forget that I am a survivor."

 _I don't want to forget that I am a survivor_.

Ella had not predicted this. Honestly, she'd thought that Jane would jump at the chance to forget - and thinking that, Ella had studied that memory spell until she knew it better than the back of her hand. But Jane doesn't want to forget, because she doesn't want to forget that she can be strong.

Ella can't say that she doesn't understand. She'd never want anyone to make her forget her own strength, her own resilience and will to survive.

"Okay," she says after a moment. "That's your choice -"

Jane leans forward suddenly, grasping at Ella's arm until she is holding Ella's hand with both of hers, uncaring of the strange jewelry adorning Ella's scarred hand. "Thank you," Jane says fervently. "Thank you for the offer. Thank you for… _killing him_. And thank you for saving me."

Ella feels strangely vulnerable as she and Jane lock gazes. She doesn't know how to respond to such profuse gratitude. She lets Jane hold her hand, struck by this human connection - this camaraderie.

And maybe that's why she makes her new offer, one that she hadn't intended to make until that very moment. "Jane," she starts, drawing the other girl's full attention. "If you ever need a place to go or you need me for anything, you can find me in an upstate town called Charmstone."

"Charmstone?" Jane repeats.

"It's a little college town full of people like me and people like you who know about people like me," Ella explains clumsily. She takes the empty paper cup sitting on the rolling table at the end of the bed and crushes it in her hand, transfiguring it into an ivory bracelet of ivy that links around Jane's thin wrist. "You'll be able to enter the town if your wearing this," she murmurs, passing her silver hand over the bracelet. "And you'll be able to find me with it, or at least someone that knows me."

Jane stares at the bracelet in awe. "It really is magic."

"Offer still stands to erase your memory, if you want."

"No, thank you," Jane says with a small smile, tracing over the curling ivy bracelet. "This is enough. More than enough."

Sensing the approach of others on the other side of the ward - knowing that she has lingered too long, no matter how good the reason - Ella lifts her lips into a smirk. "Don't be a stranger, okay? Foster kids stick together."

And if she and Jane share one last watery smile before Ella dismantles the ward and teleports into Central Park - well, that's something that will remain between them.

* * *

 **A/N: Alright, okay, here it is - I told Facebook that this story was going to take on some darker tones and I would argue that a casual acceptance of murder (for good reason or not) is _dark_. Ella's characterization is shifting again to fit the world around her, but even as it darkens in some places, it lightens in others to balance her out. Recall that Ella has borderline personality disorder; from my research, her dissociation from some of her actions, especially those caused by intense emotion, is pretty consistent with the disorder (I've been looking into crimes committed by people with BPD, along with any case study I can get my hands on to understand the interpersonal relationship aspect, so I just hope I'm representing those with the disorder accurately, or as close to accurate as possible, because BPD has varying levels of severity and one theory indicates that BPD can have certain "features", like antisocial features, and I'm doing my best with it!)**

 **Anyway, because it might come up as a question...Why didn't Ella _stop_ Jane from being assaulted? Why did she wait until her past self and Jane were out of the house to do something about Duncan? To that, I must answer with the complexity of a time paradox. In time travel theories, it is _very bad_ for the time traveler to interact with themselves - period. It can unravel time itself or lead to events that kill the time traveler or God knows what else. Additionally, as has been established already in this arc, Ella can't actually change things that happened in the past, whether she knows about them or not. We knew from the hunters and the hag that Ella's presence in the past is known, so there is a certain inevitability in those chain of events; the same is said for Jane and Duncan. However, because Ella also knows that the past won't let her change anything, she correctly figures that she wouldn't be able to kill Duncan if she hadn't already done it...when she travels back in time to 2015...and encounters yet another time loop... Shit, that's confusing. Just go with it. I'm following the rules of time travel theory.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	125. part 8: 23: i've got to let you go

**twenty three**

 **i've got to let you go**

* * *

He can't decide which is worse - that he knows it exactly what it means with an fiery etching of silver words forms in the air in front of him, or that he intentionally stalls to delay the inevitable, grabbing two paper cups of coffee from Sam's Diner and taking the long way around to the blueberry house. He supposes that it doesn't matter which is worse because, in the end, all it really means is that Bella is going back to her own time.

He doesn't want her to leave. His wolf is already whining in the back of his mind, putting up a futile resistance that leaves Anthony's skin on edge. Feelings like this - they only happen once for werewolves and it is a special kind of hellish torture to possess the knowledge that he will be unable to really act on these feelings for…a long, long time. It is good he has certain distractions on the horizon, between declaring his major and the remaining alpha trials and becoming the replacement for the pack enforcer.

Anthony can already feel himself slipping into a sullen broodiness and she hasn't even gone, yet.

 _Shit, but this sucks_.

Stacking one cup on top of the other, Anthony prepares to shoulder in through the front door and he is not surprised in the least when it opens by itself before he can. It is oddly reminiscent of his first days around her, back when he was still marveling at her _magic_ instead of the girl herself. Bella is standing in the middle of the foyer, only a few feet from where they last kissed, her expression caught between fond and haunted.

He wants to ask about how it went in New York, but he can sense that her emotions are raw and, really, this is hard enough already. Putting a brave face forward, Anthony makes sure his tone is light as he says, "Got your message. It's not exactly inconspicuous, you know."

Her answering smile is small and soft, the kind of expression he thinks very few people have the privilege of seeing. It rends his heart in two.

"Most of my magic isn't subtle," she says wryly.

"Lucky nobody was around to see it."

"Luck had nothing to do with it. I knew you were alone," she says plainly, and one day, he thinks he'll be able to solve the mystery of how she is so good at locating people from so far away. That day is not today, however, and after a beat of strained silence - both of them avoiding the giant elephant in the room - Bella raises her brows to the cups in his hand. "What is that?"

"Coffee," he says, passing the top cup over. He watches as she takes a sip, her eyes fluttering closed out of enjoyment that shouldn't be nearly as attractive as he finds it. Anthony clears his throat. "Think of it as a going away present."

"You figured me out," she murmurs.

"You promised you would say goodbye," he reminds her. Anthony scarcely blinks, trying to sear these last moments with her into his mind, unable to tear his eyes away from the sheer grace of her. He wonders how poets might have described a girl like Bella or how the great American authors would have portrayed her; he's certain there are no words to adequately describe her.

"I did," she replies, lifting her eerie eyes to meet his. "And so I am."

"You know how to get back to your own time," he states blandly.

Bella waves her hand, conjuring a thin red book stamped with golden leaves into her hand. "Ben found the answer, actually," she tells him as she shakes her head. "I never look at the details…"

"This is it, then."

The book and the coffee disappear, and in a few short strides Bella is standing in front of him with abject misery in her expression. "I didn't think it would be this hard," she whispers. "Saying good-bye, I mean. I've never really done it before and now I think I know why. It… _hurts_."

His hands fall to her waist, holding her close to imprint her scent and the shape of her body onto his very soul. Her head tucks neatly beneath his chin, her hands trapped against his chest. "You know me in the future, don't you? This isn't really good-bye."

Bella twists in his embrace, lifting her hand to trace over the new scar on his brow as sadness stamps into her scent. "There's a lot I wish I could change," she says. "But everything happens the way it will happen, the way it's always been meant to happen. I get that now."

Anthony leans into her touch, nose to the pulse of her wrist. Thunderstorms and candied orange and the zest of a lemon.

"You have to remember that, Tony," she says, suddenly firm.

His heart flips in his chest at hearing this new name for himself on her lips. It gains his undivided attention at once and he looks down at her with a knit brow, holding her closer in muted alarm at the abrupt directness in her eyes. "What?"

"There are… _things_ that are going to happen in the future. To me, specifically," she clarifies. "You're going to want to interfere - and looking back on at least one instance involving a bench - which, please don't judge me too harshly for that - you _do_ make an impact but…You have to let things happen as they are meant to."

"Bella?"

"That isn't my name," she says and it isn't his imagination that her eyes look glassy. "I'm Ella Cullen and I will not know you when you see me next. But you'll know me…and you'll be the support I need, even when I don't want it and -"

"Don't say any more." His fingers hook beneath her chin, tilting her to a better angle so he can greedily trace his eyes down the contours of her face. He exhales quietly. "You need me to protect the timeline. I can do that, because it means that I'll eventually get you. I don't mind waiting."

She frowns at him, a bite of peppery anger entering her scent. "You _should_ mind! I'm - I'm, like, totally screwing you over right now! It's going to be two years before you see me again, and then another year before I'll know who you are _to me_ , and you _don't mind waiting_?" She pokes him in the chest, indignant on his behalf, and the affection he feels for this crazy girl is staggering, especially after she catches the smirk forming on his face and only gets louder in response. "I'm serious, you shouldn't be so fucking chill about this. If it were me, I would-"

 _Ella_ tastes like coffee when he kisses her - absorbing her irritation, stealing her breath, gentling her disposition until she is leaning into him and trading long, lingering presses of their lips. It is an incredible act of his own self-control to keep the pace and pressure from becoming too ardent, to prevent his hands from closing bruise-hard around her hips as if he could ever actually physically stop her from doing _anything_ , let alone leaving. Instead, when he tastes the salt of a single spilled tear on his tongue, Anthony mouths down to her jaw, and then the dip of her neck. He kisses that single spot for a long moment, a sort of promise that he will keep to himself, and then he leans away, brushing away that tear track with the pad of his thumb.

She stares at him - his girl, with her swollen lips and her reluctance to leave - and then she says, "I have something I want to say to you, something that I never thought I would say to anyone."

"I know," he says, because the truth is in her scent. He kisses her again, soft and fleeting. "But don't tell me yet. Leave me something to look forward to so the next few years will be bearable."

"Tony…"

He steps back, dropping his hands slowly. "I know that I've got to let you go," he tells her. Inside his wolf snarls, fighting against this truth, and Anthony's hands curl into fists, claws, tearing at his skin.

Ella waits a beat longer, and then closing her eyes, she disappears from his view with nothing more than a soft _pop_.

If Anthony tears apart the drywall already punctured by her knife-throwing and the shift rends against his skin until he bleeds - well, then nobody will ever know that the beginning of his long wait started with more anguish than peace.

(It is a long two years.)

(He keeps his promise to not interfere - except for one cold winter night when he finds a certain girl giggling on a bench, of course.)

* * *

 **A/N: And now everything we know about Anthony has come full-circle. Who else ugly-cried? I did!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**

 **HAPPY NEW YEAR!**


	126. part 8: 24: home

**twenty four**

 **home**

* * *

Tracking down a faerie like Aro is something of a task. He isn't the type that spends loads of time away from his own people or outside of his own fae-magic wards, and since Ella can't get onto campus because she's stuck in the past, that means that she has to _wait_. Luckily, it happens to be a Friday and Aro's ego is predictable enough that she is able to shadow him after the town council meeting once he's had his fun riling Stefan up.

Still, if she could get home without involving Aro, she would - but it isn't possible. She has tried everything she could possibly conceive to no avail. There is only one way, tucked neatly in the footnotes of a thin red book, loaned from Black, found by Ben, and only attainable through Aro, who was _obviously_ clued in on Ella's time traveling escapade, since he took few pains to orchestrate the exact circumstances that would land her back in the past.

A small part of Ella quails at the realization that she has - astoundingly - become a team player. Somehow, she needs people and they need her. Somehow, she's learned to seek help. It's baffling, especially since only a year ago she would have happily concluded that she is a loner.

Not so much, anymore.

Ella doesn't bother concealing herself from Aro's detection as she trails behind him on the familiar sidewalk leading to the Viridity front gates. Judging from Aro's exaggerated swagger as he pointedly bypasses the gate in favor of the wild growth leading to the forest, he is well aware that he is being followed. Of course, as this Aro of 2015 doesn't know her _yet_ , it's only fitting that their true first introduction should begin by Aro whirling around with glittering, icy blue magic creeping from his body in thin tendrils.

Ella isn't threatened. Maybe she should be, because Aro's offensive faerie magic feels strong even from some distance away and because all faerie magic is designed to affect the senses in some way - muddling inhibitions, directly playing with emotions, or altering perception, like the magical equivalent of smoke-and-mirrors intended entirely to confuse and weaken and disarm. But still, even with Aro's glowing, too-pale, too-sharp features glaring at her shrewdly, all Ella really feels is a pang of homesickness and a tinge of bemusement.

"That's not a very nice way to greet a friend, Aro," she says as she snaps a ward into place around him, effectively trapping him with his own magic.

Aro is swift to reign himself in, magic retreating as his quick mind runs through a clear threat assessment. "A friend, you say," he wonders after a moment. His body language relaxes into the languid confidence she is used to seeing and he waits expectantly for her to dismantle the ward before he speaks again. "A friend, indeed. What should I call you, _little witch_ , for surely you have a name?"

Ella smirks at the hint of frostiness in his tone. Strangely, she has missed his subtle little power plays, the ones he performs for his own amusement. Her smile widens as she steps closer. "You can call me Mab," she says imperiously.

Because now she _totally_ gets the little joke he'll make in the future.

His expression pinches for a moment before smoothing out. "Alright then, _Mab_. What service might you need of me?"

"Tell me, is it true that faeries can travel between realms?"

Aro mocks offense. "How bold of you to doubt otherwise."

Ella hums. "Is it also true that time moves differently in some realms?"

"Yes, naturally."

Ella nods, then holds out her arm as Raven suddenly swoops from the treetops. She strokes Raven's beak in greeting and raises her brow to Aro. "And if I were to tell you that my familiar and I think it's possible to hijack the time dissonance between two realms to travel toward my own time?"

Aro's light-hearted façade melts right off his face and he stares down his nose at her, negative appraisal bold on his face. "No witch could possibly do such a thing, not without risk of burning out her magic and ending her own life."

"You're assuming that I'm a witch. I am not."

Skepticism makes his eyes narrow, his head tilting again as he looks between her and Raven. "Then what are you?"

"That would be telling," she smirks, pacing a lazy trail around him, amused as he turns to keep her in sight at all times. "Can I count on your help, or not?"

"I would never delay the desires of a being so powerful as to dare use the name of a faerie queen as an alias," he says after a beat, lips tipping into a wry smile. "Also, I suspect that my assistance need not be on a voluntary basis."

Ella shrugs, neither confirming or refuting his allusion that she would use magic to _make_ him do what she wants.

"You're quite formidable."

Ella thinks of the hunters who call her beast - who will quiver at the sight of her in little under three year's time - and dips her head just slightly. She has been called worse than formidable, and coming from Aro, there is more than a bit of admiration in the way he says it. Which is good. Aro needs to be interested in helping her - and more importantly, he must be interested in remaining on her good side. Too many things rely on Aro's self-serving nature in the future, including her arriving in the past; without his indirect interference in tipping her off to Stefan's desire to buy the bookstore, Ella would have never gone through all of the hag's hoarded belongings, Peter would have never found the attic with the box and genealogy book, and Ella would have never vented in the forest, only to stumble upon Merlin's athame.

Aro is instrumental in all of it - because she's _made_ him instrumental in all of it. This right here, this moment, this interaction, _this_ is the reason that there will be a time loop. Because Ella has orchestrated it to be so.

"I will help you, _little witch_ , though no deal of mine is made for free."

She snorts, glancing at him sardonically. "Alright, Rumplestiltskin. What do you want me to do? Spin straw into gold, or something?"

Aro shakes his head, hands crossed in front of his body. "I'm a faerie. I have no need of gold, and even if I did, I'm a prince of my realm with more riches than years on my very long life. No, what I will require from you is a favor in the future."

"You want an _I Owe You_?" she clarifies with a restrained scoff. Of course, that is exactly what Aro wants. Faeries trade in favors and they respect power - naturally, Aro would jump at the chance to be owed a favor by someone like Ella. Still, she thought it would be a little more difficult to gain Aro's aid.

"Bound in blood, of course, to make sure that the favor is binding," he adds as an afterthought.

 _There it is_ , she thinks. _The caveat_.

Ella lifts her chin. "Deal."

Aro smiles amicably, holding his hand out, palm already knicked. Ella follows suit, pricking the center of her palm and pressing their hands together, sealing her owed favor in blood and magic. "Pleasure doing business with you… _Mab_ ," Aro murmurs as he steps away. Aro turns to the nearest tree, places his palms on the bark, and chants in the faerie tongue to open a shimmering rainbow-hued portal. "A portal through all the realms," he explains as he steps to the side, fingers hooked around one edge of the portal to keep it open. "Think of your destination in as many specifics as you can and step through. Quite simple, truly."

Aro is right. It is simple - if by simple, one means that it is rather painful to feel the portal sucking at her magic, that it is impossible to breathe, that she can scarcely move forward because she is not a fae and going through a fae portal like this, as Aro indicated, _should_ be impossible.

Ella makes it through, perhaps by the skin of her teeth, with Raven cradled to her chest as she stumbles out of a _tree_ and lands on her knees -

On fresh grass, in the day time, with the baking sun heat pressing against the raw-feeling skin on the back of her neck, and the spine-shuddering sensation of familiar magic in the ley lines buzzing to welcome her back -

She's home. She recognizes the clearing she's stumbled into as the one from which she originally disappeared; she can even see evidence of her magical temper tantrum from right before she saw Merlin's athame notched in that tree.

She's back in 2018, returned to the day when she left.

Behind her, Aro's portal winks shut, and the forest falls silent. Ella releases Raven with weak arms, feeling altogether like she's just walked on hot coals while being struck by lightning and her body isn't sure if it was put back together correctly. That feeling passes quickly enough, helped along by Charmstone's natural magical currents that she is tied so irrevocably to eagerly lending assistance, bolstering her own magical resilience. Maybe fifteen minutes pass before she feels okay to stand, and then another five while she blinks the magician's vision into focus, searching for one lifeline in particular -

Ella does not hesitate, locking onto a beloved lupine gold thread and calling on a desperate need to be _right there_ \- she pops out of the forest and lands in the middle of _The Magic Shop_ right in front of Anthony, who is in the middle of arguing with someone about something that really doesn't matter at all.

Something in Ella snaps into place at the sight of his toffee curls and scarred brow and _recognition_ in those predominantly green eyes, and between one heart beat and the next, she has flung her arms around his neck and pulled him into a shameless kiss - one which he returns fervently, a passionate clash of a kiss that has no end in sight -

There is a tingle in the middle of her chest, enclosed around her heart, which suddenly feels full and complete, as if it had been restored when she didn't even know part of it was missing. Later, she will recognize it for what it is - her lifeline and Anthony's joining together, just the way they should now that they are _finally_ on the same page and in the same time -

But his kiss, his taste, his touch is all that matters.

She is home.

(Distantly, she is aware of Peter in the background, bewildered as he makes bleating exclamations and half-aborted movements. "No, seriously!" Peter shouts, flapping his hands in their direction. "When the hell did this happen?!")

* * *

 **A/N: Ah, back in the present. You guys, you have _no idea_ how psyched I was for this arc, like, I can't even say how pleased I am that this half of the story is all tied up. There are, of course, several loose ends that I've hinted about on Facebook that still need to be addressed - so, basically, the story isn't over yet. Part 8, on the other hand, is complete. Stay tuned for the interludes in the upcoming days. I'm super jazzed about them, too.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	127. part 8: interlude

**WARNING: The following chapter contains (long-awaited) slash, or M/M. If it isn't your thing, don't flame me for it, as _I am giving fair warning_. Don't like? Don't read.**

* * *

 **interlude**

* * *

Peter is confused. Very, very confused. Last time he checked, his best friend was fully preparing to make his alpha's internal organs into a modern art piece - and now, not _hours_ later, Ella is actively sucking face with Anthony. Like, in a way that is shamelessly exhibitionist too, so much so that Peter had made himself scarce from the bookstore because, _oh God his eyes are burning_.

He did not need to see or _smell_ lust like that _ever_. Where's the brain bleach?

Except - well, maybe Peter isn't as wigged by that scene as he's pretending to be, because it wasn't that much of a surprise, was it? There's been _something_ , some cut-with-a-knife tension growing between Ella and Anthony for months now and the part of Peter that isn't so freaked by how abrupt that tension broke is _super_ proud of his friend for finding her balls and taking what she wants.

 _Okay, shitty metaphor,_ he thinks with a sigh, tilting his head back as he loiters on the street corner. Where can he go now that _The Magic Shop_ is closed for long-awaited alone time? With his new wolfy senses, Peter can't imagine it would be pleasant for anyone if he was in the loft above the store, but he still isn't exactly allowed to spend time with his family completely unsupervised - not until his control is exceptional, which it isn't. So, that's out, and his options become pretty slim, because he can't risk the safety of his human friends.

Bree. He can hang out with Bree. It's the only viable option, really.

Only, because it's summer, Bree won't be found anywhere near campus - she's moved back home for break, just like everyone else, and more specifically, just like _Riley_. Who Peter is still not quite ready to face. For reasons. If he wants to waste the day away with Bree, then he'll have to go to the Masen house and risk running into Riley.

But he can just stay in Bree's room, right? Right. Good plan. _Great_ plan, in fact.

And Peter is _totally_ _intending_ to stick to the plan, okay, but by the time he's made it out to the house nestled in the forest, Peter has had _thoughts_. Mostly, like, if Ella can do it, then why can't Peter? Like, sure, Ella is a certified badass and Peter is definitely _not_ , but what does that really matter in the end? Seriously, Ella can keep her moxie because Peter has _gumption_.

Of course, by the time he has scaled the side of the house with the aid of a helpfully placed tree and popped open the window to Riley's room - Riley's scent smacks something fierce, oh God - Peter is bemoaning his so-called gumption. He could totally trade it in for something more sensible. Like self-preservation, for example, which is surging through him with the speed of a freight train the _moment_ Riley notices the intrusion.

Peter is frozen, half-hoisted on the ledge of the window, and takes in the scene presented to him as his mind tumbles between panic and attraction. Riley's room looks the same since high school, with Broadway posters neatly tacked onto the walls, and a replica of the Phantom's mask from _The Phantom of the Opera_ balancing on the bedside table. The boy in question is lounging shirtless on his bed, one arm tucked under his head as he scrolls through Twitter on his phone, and responds to Peter's arrival with a placid expression.

"We have a front door, you know," Riley points out curtly.

"I - I…" Peter stammers. Peter's mouth is dry. He can't seem to stop his eyes from training on Riley's barred chest, the slimness of his stomach and the tantalizing jut of his hips peeking above the band of his short. Peter can count the number of times he has seen Riley shirtless on one hand and he is not prepared _at all_ for the way the wolf locked inside begins to salivate over the flickering thought of just _biting_ into that flesh. How many ways could Peter leave his mark on Riley? His wolf really, _really_ wants to find out and it's kind of hell, actually.

Dazedly, Peter mutters, "This was such a shitty plan, oh dear God."

Riley heaves a great sigh and sits up, depositing his phone next to the mask on the table as he does. "Come inside already. You look like an idiot just sitting there."

Peter obeys without question, managing to bang his knee on the window pane as he drops into the bedroom. He's really too tall for climbing in the damn window to ever have been a good idea, but he bets that he could execute a perfectly respectable dive if he really had to -

"Is this your way of saying that you're done avoiding me?" Riley wonders as he leans back on his hands. His hair is longer than when Peter really saw him last, the caramel tresses curling loosely about the base of his neck; as he stares stupidly, Riley reaches up and tucks a curl behind his ear, and Peter just about dies. "Because it was getting really old," Riley continues indolently. "And so is the silence, Peter."

At the sound of his name of those utterly fuckable lips, the wolf in Peter sits up and takes notice - and Peter takes a moment to really _take_ Riley in. Not just the way he looks or what he's saying, but all the little cues that Peter would have been ignorant of were he human. Beyond Riley's torpid expression and the flatness of his voice, his scent is broadcasting a whole mix of emotions that Peter has a hard time identifying. Sadness is definitely one and so anger, a sprinkle of ginger beneath the layers of Riley's base scent of peanut brittle. Then there's Riley's heart, which isn't as steady as Riley's countenance would suggest, like he's nervous, or something. And then with Peter's better eyesight, he can see all the minute movements that Riley makes, the way his fingers press so subtly into the duvet on the bed and the tension in his arms and shoulders.

Riley really is a good actor because Peter has no idea what he's really feeling. Tentatively, Peter says, "Are you….mad at me?"

"Yes!" Riley says explosively.

"I didn't _ask_ to be turned into a werewolf, you know!" Peter says defensively. "But if it's between werewolf and dead, then I pick werewolf - every time! And, like, you're _related_ to werewolf, so how you can be so bitchy about _me_ being one is just beyond all sense -"

"God, you're so _dumb_ ," Riley interject irately. He storms up to Peter, tilting his head back to glare at him. "I'm not mad at you because you're _alive_. I'm mad at you because you're alive and I wouldn't have known about it at all if my brother hadn't told me directly. I'm mad at you because it's been _months_ of radio silence, and now you're climbing through my window and -"

"You were worried about me," Peter realizes dumbly.

A flush dusts across Riley's cheeks. "That isn't the point," he says hotly, and he launches into what must surely be a beautifully delivered tirade, but Peter isn't listening.

Riley was worried about him. Riley was worried about him and his heart sounds nervous and he smells like _hurt_ and his words are angry, but he's blushing at Peter right now and suddenly it all clicks together.

Riley likes him.

Riley likes Peter the way that Peter likes Riley.

It's possible that Peter should have spent more than a split-second to think about what _that_ means, but as it is, Peter caves into every single impulse, leans down, at presses a firm kiss to Riley's bitching mouth. Even for as graceless as it is, the angle all wrong, there is still a sharply searing thrill that shoots through all of his nerves for the short moment that the kiss lasts.

"Sorry," Peter murmurs against Riley's lips, savoring the feel and taste.

He pulls back to see the floored expression on Riley's face morph into exasperation. "You really are an idiot," he sighs. Riley leans up, grasps the nape of Peter's neck, and guides him into a second kiss - a better, more practiced, unbelievably natural kiss that Peter can only melt into because _Riley is kissing him_. It's awesome, it really is, and better beyond any of Peter's wildest dreams. Peter awards the task of kissing Riley his full attention, idly aware that Riley is tracing the shape of his shoulders and then using that leverage to move Peter around. It isn't until Peter's knees hit the edge of the mattress that he realizes Riley is trying to pull Peter on top of him, and Peter's brain kind of skids off the rails.

At Peter's abrupt stall, Riley rolls his eyes, flushed in the face and chest, and drags Peter into another kiss. This kiss is not as chaste as the others before it; Peter quickly looses himself in the heady nutmeg in Riley's scent, the kiss open-mouthed and wet and punctuated with deep sighs and fingers carding through his hair. Somehow - Peter isn't sure, exactly - his shirt disappears and as he ducks his head down to explore the new, exciting territory of Riley's collarbone, hands appear on his back, learning the curve of his ribs and the knobs of his spine.

And then Peter's thumb skims against a flat nipple, which pebbles beneath his touch, and Riley makes this _sound_ and Peter's hips - quite by their own accord - twitch downward in response. And Riley's low gasp turns into a moan as he raises his hips, grinding back against Peter -

He doesn't know why, but with his heart thundering in his chest, Peter flinches backward, removing his lips from Riley's skin with a wild glint in his eye.

"Why are you stopping?" Riley demands, hand skimming down to the dip of Peter's spine to encourage them to press together again. "I didn't tell you to stop."

There are fangs in Peter's mouth and claws on his fingers, the partial shift coming over him insistent and uncontrollable. He shakes his head, raising his hand to show Riley. "I shouldn't -"

Riley grabs his hand, the touch surprisingly gentle, as is the softness in his eyes. "You aren't going to hurt me, Peter."

"I could," Peter says roughly. He thinks this is the wolf trying to break free, take over control and _take_ Riley, because he can feel his eyes burning with the golden glow, too, and Peter should really, _really_ not be risking this.

He can't seem to make himself move away, though, and Riley seems to sense this victory. He raises enough to place his lips to Peter's ear. "You aren't going to hurt me anymore than I want to be hurt," he says with his usual lackadaisical manner. "We'll stop if you really don't want to go any further, but if you want to stop because you're afraid of _scaring_ me…"

He doesn't want to scare Riley. He doesn't want to scare himself, either.

But the musk of arousal is thick in the air between them and Riley is so inviting, his thigh between Peter's, and Peter is so hard that all the blood seems to have disappeared completely from his head and he definitely isn't thinking straight. He's thinking super _gay_ , actually. Like, he wants to do some very, very gay things with Riley, and yes, he might be a bit delirious.

If Riley isn't afraid of the fangs or the claws, though, then why should Peter hold back? He's wanted this _forever_ , it seems, and Riley wants it too -

Their next kiss is hard, but fleeting, just a flick of his tongue against Riley's lips before he returns to his place on Riley's neck, which is already blossoming with faint red bruises that make him inexplicably proud. He relaxes into Riley's body, groaning as their clothed cocks brush together, and reveling in the noises that Riley makes, the way Riley bites into his shoulder and the way his hands slip beneath Peter's jeans and boxers to blatantly grope his ass.

Riley is again responsible for divesting Peter of his clothes, though this time it is only enough for Peter's pants to slip down to his knees, quickly followed by his underwear. Heat rises in Peter's face as he watches Riley work on the button of his shorts, his eyes flicking between Riley's confident, lustful smirk, and the new knowledge that Riley goes commando.

Peter swallows heavily, shutting his eyes against he sight of Riley closing his hand around both of them, and his claws rip into the bedding at the first dual stroke. "Oh, my God," Peter moans, dropping his forehead onto Riley's shoulder.

Riley laughs at him, a breathy huff of a thing, and Peter shuts him up with a series of hard, slip-slick kisses. When Riley twists the palm of his hand over the head of Peter's cock, there is little else Peter can do except rut against the friction; and then Riley's hand falls away in favor of grasping at Peter's hip, and they undulate against each other for endless moments.

Riley bites his lip and Peter shudders at the sensation, pushed over the edge and spilling on the concave dip of Riley's stomach with a whine. When Riley finishes, it is with a satisfied moan and a twist of the hair at the nape of Peter's neck, and it isn't an exaggeration at all that Peter has to physically restrain himself from dipping down to lick the cum from Riley's dick. Instead, Peter finds himself rubbing his cum against Riley's skin, careful to not prick Riley with his claws, and only after he's done this for _at least_ a minute does he rear back, baffled by his own behavior.

He's kind of horrified by it, actually, but Riley isn't. Riley relaxes bonelessly against his ruined bed, the tiny upturn of his lips oddly indulgent as he watches Peter. "Don't stop on my account," he drawls.

Peter flushes, ears burning. "I - it must be a werewolf thing, I think, because this is a kink I definitely did not have three months ago and I _never_ thought this would really happen with you so, I mean…" Peter trails off with a frown. "Am I dreaming? Hallucinating? Maybe this is a super vivid daydream and any moment now, I'll snap back into reality and you'll still be yelling at me for avoiding you."

Riley rubs his thumb over Peter's bottom lip, tracing the confused from there, and then drags his thumb down Peter's chin and throat. "You're so weird," he says, somehow both mocking and fond at the same time.

Peter knows then that against all odds, he isn't dreaming. He is not imagining that this thing between him and Riley has just happened. It's all very real and his wolf is rolling on its back in contentment.

And while Riley is flattered by Peter's continued disbelief, he also makes it _very_ clear that he expects this new thing between them to happen again, because apparently, "You're such an idiot, but you're _my_ idiot. Don't you know that werewolves mate for life?"

Peter did not know.

But he suspects Riley won't ever let him forget it.

(Thank _God_.)

* * *

 **A/N: Is it just me, or does Riley _really_ seem like the type to be a bossy bottom? Ironically, the first M-rated smut in this whole thing is between minor characters, but I feel like Peter _deserves_ this and also I have plans to be pretty graphic for the Ella-Anthony scenes when they come up, so, it's a fair trade that this is probably going to be the _only_ slash in the entire story. _Probably_.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	128. part 8: interlude interlude

**interlude**

* * *

"I'm so mad at you."

The words are uttered against her flushed cheek, their foreheads pressed together, eyes locked - silver to gold - and unblinking. He cannot bring himself to stop touching her. He doesn't _want_ to stop touching her, now that he has tacit permission, now that she has returned to him wearing a shirt that once belonged to him and still marked in his scent from the last coffee-tasting kiss they shared. The wolf inside is curled in happiness to be so completely surrounded by _mate_ and Anthony is no different.

His girl's fingers push through the riotous curls on his head and she smiles, that special small thing he has only ever seen once, a smile that belongs to him and is reserved for him, he now realizes. "That's refreshing," she says. "Usually I'm mad at you."

He huffs out a short laugh. "I know."

Her smile falls, though, and she squeezes her eyes closed, awash in a fresh scent of guilt. "I'm…so sorry about it all, Tony. It must have been hell watching all of that happen just for the sake of protecting the timeline…"

He cups her cheeks, ducking his head to catch her gaze. "Not just for the sake of the timeline," he disagrees. "For _you_ , because as much as it sucked to watch you die _twice_ , I kept my faith in you and in what you told me. Everything was for you, Ella."

She sighs through kiss-swollen lips. "You're still mad at me, though."

"Well," he shrugs. "The two aren't mutually exclusive. Being angry at you for not giving me a better idea of what the future would bring doesn't mean I love you any less."

Ella's breath catches - she looks like she can't find her words, but he doesn't need to hear words the way that she does. Anthony cannot help but kiss her, his stupefied girl, still eighteen and headstrong with her broken soul worn as glass shards on her hands for all the world to see how she has survived and endured. He has been waiting years to kiss her again, but he is sure to restrain himself as much as possible. He doesn't push for anything other than ardent, feverish kisses. She isn't ready for that next step and he finds that he needs to acclimate to this new dynamic between them in the future she has returned to - and because he has fallen in love with her in such a non-linear way. They shouldn't rush into anything more than what they have in this moment; they have to re-learn each other in this new context.

He made a promise to himself once, with his mouth tender to the curve of her neck, that he would do his best to protect this magical creature he has claimed for his own, this diamond-strong girl who drives him crazy with her reckless bravery and has a heroic streak a mile wide. It is, he reflects, his solemn duty to do right by her in all the ways he can, and it is no burden on him to think with his brain instead of his cock.

He can be patient. He will be patient. For her. Always, always for his girl.

As he has learned, he will not perish because of a bit of waiting.

* * *

 **A/N: Anthony knows what Ella needs better than Ella does. She's still got some issues to deal with! They are together emotionally and that's the important part.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	129. part 8: interlude interlude interlude

**interlude**

* * *

Luck is the reason that Alec is still breathing.

Some people don't believe in luck, a fact which Alec cannot fathom. The entire universe is one lucky mistake; the fact that the Earth sustains life is the result of a lucky solar position; human evolution relies on the luck of outwitting predators for a millennia. Alec is convinced that luck is the most powerful force to ever exist, an entity of chance that can even circumvent fate. Both good luck and bad luck are the reason that magicians exist, after all, and as a magician, Alec would be a fool to ignore the potency of luck.

Until now, Alec has never had any cause to doubt luck. And even after coming home to the charred remains of shoji screens that became his parents' improvised graves, even after spending six months on the run from The Order - and it _must_ have been The Order - even now Alec can do nothing but respect luck. He is lucky to be alive and he knows that if his mother, Nao, were living she would be pleased at his continued optimism. The second wife of his father, Solomon, was a cheery woman who seemed to be the only one capable of softening her husband's serious disposition.

They are dead, though, and have left behind a half-Japanese orphan to fend for himself while trying to hide from the most vicious organization in the world. Alec tries very hard not to be embittered by this reality. He has never encountered anything quite like the fire that would not die, that seemed to feed off his magic as he tried to put it out, and he knows that his magician father would have done everything in his power to survive. Alec cannot place blame on his parents for dying - no, that honor goes to The Order of Mordred.

Alec knows only what Solomon told him about The Order, which isn't very much - only that The Order's mission was to allow descendants of Mordred to siphon the power from descendants of Morgan le Fay and descendants of Merlin. Meaning Alec. Like his father before him, Alec can proudly trace his lineage to the most powerful magician of light magic to ever live. The _first_ magician, a protector and warden over all things life, including the creation of shapeshifters, if Solomon is to be believed.

With The Order so occupied in tracking Alec down, he can only wonder just how many magicians not related to Mordred are still walking the earth. He wouldn't think very many; legend of The Order's terror spreads back for centuries.

Alec is tired of running. As he lays exhausted at the end of each day, he reflects on how utterly futile his efforts seem; from the island of Japan, across South Korea and China, and up through Pakistan and India, The Order has hounded him. While in France, Alec had briefly thought he lost them, but he'd only had opportunity to rest for two weeks before it became necessary to dovetail through the rest of the European nations. Alec's last stand had been finally hiding in the cargohold of a chartered plane to America, hoping that crossing the Atlantic Ocean would make him more difficult to track, as often large bodies of water disturbed tracking magic. It has been a week since he landed in New York City - just as fantastical as his father claimed it would be - and paranoia has given Alec cause to believe that his luck will once again be running out.

The problem is that until now, Alec has been reluctant to seek asylum in any of the supernatural hideaways scattered across the globe, unwilling to run the risk of potentially endangering thousands of supernatural lives. But hiding in the human world is obviously not working and Alec doesn't know how much longer he can keep running.

Which is how he's found himself in a cramped little coffee shop, taking refuge from the pelting rain outside. If he had any money, he would have bought one of the hot cups of blended tea the baristas are mixing behind the counter, but Alec does not have money and he is not willing to steal any - not even to sustain himself.

He is a descendant of _Merlin_ ; his magic is the lightest there is; he will not be reduced to petty theft.

 _Mind your pride_ , a smooth voice inside his head reminds him. Akira, who has been bonded to Alec's magic through a tattoo of the great white stag standing nimble between his shoulder blades since he was very small, is a great comfort in such hollow times.

 _Of course,_ Alec agrees with a sigh. _You're right. But I am feeling…defeated by these circumstances. I have not been able to properly grieve and I fear that makes me a bad son._

 _Your parents would want you to live,_ Akira reminds him gently.

 _I am not living_ , Alec thinks with dejection. _I am barely even existing, and not for long if I cannot find a shelter to hide myself in…And I am so unfamiliar with the American sanctuaries…_

 _Do not lose hope_ , Akira encourages. _Among us there are others who will know, those who walk by the grace of magic and by the blessings of Merlin. Do you not sense a resonance of any magic that feels like an echo of your forefather's?_

In fact, Alec has not sensed any werewolves since arriving in America, though he's certain no wolf would willingly live in a city like New York, so it is not that surprising. As a descendant of Merlin, who first imbued some humans with the ability to possess a second form of their choosing, Alec should be able to sense any kind of shapeshifter that he happens upon. The fact that he has not is disconcerting, for even in a city and even with a shapeshifter's reluctance to be removed from nature, there should be _something_.

Alec feels nothing -

Wait.

His eyes slit open, peering cautiously at the crowded coffee shop. He frowns when he notices just what has caught his attention. One of the harried baristas, a willowy blonde with wide cornflower blue eyes, is trying to deflect the attentions of three college students - and not very successfully. Alec can sense a disturbance in the auras around him when the girl flinches away when one student reaches across the counter, as if to steal her hand. The girl drops the paper cup she'd been writing on, fumbling with the pen, and the boys chortle; her cheeks heat in mortification and she casts a pleading look to the other barista, who pays her no mind.

Alec stands up, his chair scraping across the floor, and moves toward the counter. At a closer range, he can hear the free-handed one say, "Don't be a bitch, baby, I was just trying to get you to smile. Come on, give us a smile."

The girl's eyes drop to the ground and she seems to shrink in on herself.

Alec is perturbed. He has never liked bullies and his father instilled in him a deep distaste for men who harass women. And though he is tired, Alec does not hesitate to insert himself into the situation, easing between the counter and the college students with his back to the meek girl. Despite Alec's compact build, he is not intimidated. He has magic, after all.

"I think it would be best for you to leave this establishment," Alec says, and though he is perfectly fluent in English because of his father, there is a slight accent to his voice and he almost startles at hearing himself speak. He clears his throat, staring at each of the students with a firm set to his mouth, awaiting their response.

"Hey, man," says one with a curl of his lip. "Mind your own business, yeah?"

"We were just talking, weren't we, Janey baby?"

This close, Alec can _feel_ the girl's aura tighten in discomfort. It doesn't sit right with him, that these students seem to _know_ the barista and that this type of interaction is somehow normal. He flicks his eyes between the students, then calls forth a bare token of his magic. "Leave peaceably," he says, dropping his voice persuasively with a flash of his eyes and a tiny _push_ of his magic, willing the young men to leave.

They do, one tripping over the other two in their haste to vacate the premises while Alec observes calmly. He should feel bad, perhaps, about using Merlin's gift on humans - because it is immoral - but his intervention aided the girl, and even his father would applaud using magic for this means.

 _I agree_ , says Akira.

"Thank you," a soft voice breathes out behind him.

Alec turns, prepared to wave off the girl's gratitude as nothing more than being a descent human being, but his words dry up on his tongue. With short, pale blonde hair curling softly around her heart-shaped face, a peaches-and-cream complexion with freckles dusted over the bridge of her nose, and round, wide-set eyes, there is something undeniably innocently beautiful about the girl - Jane, according to the metal name tag pinned beneath the collar of her shirt. Alec hadn't realized how pretty she is and he certainly isn't prepared for the shock of sensing _magic_ coming from the girl.

No. Not from Jane.

She is wearing an ivory bracelet of interlocking vines that is positively _drenched_ in magic - strange magic, quite unlike anything Alec has ever come across, and very strong. Whoever bequeathed to her that bracelet is someone more than a little formidable. But the magic isn't _exactly_ dark, which leaves him shaken and reeling, because the only beings capable of having magic strung right between light and dark are the descendants of Morgan le Fay - who Alec believes to be _extinct_.

The magic in the bracelet would suggest otherwise.

This is luck lending him a hand once again. He just has to take the opportunity.

Alec removes his eyes, meeting Jane's gaze boldly. "It is the least I could do," he says belatedly, hesitating a smile.

A becoming pink spreads across Jane's cheeks and she shakes her head. "Not many people would do what you did," she disagrees quietly. "Please, let me give you a cup of coffee on the house. Do you drink coffee?"

"I would not turn down a cup," he replies.

Jane offers him the tiniest smile, then directs him back to his table. And Alec, a bit befuddled, can only comply.

Yes, certainly luck again.

 **_/\\_/\\_/\\_**

Jane covertly watches as her rescuer retreats back to the table he has been sitting in since the start of her shift. It isn't very often - hardly ever, really - that Jane recognizes attractive people, but her nameless hero certainly is handsome, with a shock of jet black hair and enviable angular features. It's his kindness, however, that has drawn her attention. She meant what she said; not many people in New York City bother to look up from their phones long enough to help a random stranger, but the _he_ did.

It reminds her of another of Jane's heroes - another person who had selflessly helped Jane - but it is not the only thing that is common between her old foster sister and this boy.

Jane's lips turn downward. She can't get a read on the Asian boy's age, though she suspects by the way he carries himself that he is no longer a teenager. At nineteen, Jane prides herself on her ability to form accurate impressions of people; sometimes, she thinks it's the only talent she possesses outside of her flare for mathematics. The boy, whoever he is and _what_ ever he is, is fundamentally a good person. Jane can tell.

"He's pretty cute," her co-worker comments.

"Oh," Jane exhales softly, feeling another tell-tale blush rise on her cheeks. She redirects her attention to finishing preparing the simple black coffee she's making, dipping her head down so that Amanda will not see the conflict in her expression - conflict that always arises when Jane deals with the opposite sex and is exacerbated by the suspicions she has about her stranger. "It's not like that."

"Sure it isn't," Amanda says with an affable wink. "You have _great_ taste. Look, your break is coming up and it's slow in here, anyway, so why don't you take your time, yeah? I can cover the counter."

Jane works her mouth silently for a moment, struggling with a way to correct the assumption Amanda has made, but in the end she can only soundlessly take the ceramic cup of coffee to the table near the front corner of the shop and try to ignore Amanda's eyes searing into her back. How embarrassing, this whole horrible, strange afternoon.

Jane smiles tentatively at her stranger after she places the coffee in front of him. He murmurs his thanks in a voice not dissimilar to crushed velvet and motions for Jane to take the seat across from him. She does, working her fingers together anxiously, unsure of how to start.

In the end, he is the one to speak first. "This is delicious coffee," he says.

"Thank you," she returns awkwardly. It's her job, but she doesn't really _enjoy_ it. Jane dislikes the taste of coffee and the scent is beginning to wear on her, but the tips she earns as a barista make it possible to eat something other than ramen every night on her tight college budget and that's what matters.

"I am Alec."

"Jane." She begins to play with the bracelet Ella made for her, a nervous habit that has formed over the last three years. Ella, her old foster sister and the reason that Jane made it out of the foster system in more or less one piece; Ella, who had visited her in the hospital looking so radically different than she had the hour before and who spoke of magic and a special town. Ella has been in Jane's thoughts a lot, lately, and she's been thinking more and more about taking leave from college to go find her, feeling like she has unfinished business with Ella, somehow.

Alec's eyes are drawn to Jane's bracelet - for the second time. "That is very unique," he observes.

"It was given to me by someone very unique," Jane says, carefully watching Alec's expression.

 _It's the eyes_ , she thinks.

Ella has such specifically unusual eyes, a pallid grey tinged with blue and green and flecked with silver, and Jane has never seen anything remotely close to the shade in anyone else. Except for Alec, that is. It isn't the shape, because Alec's eyes are firmly almond-shaped and tilted at the sides, and while Alec's eyes aren't grey, the opaque quality of the shade is viscerally similar. The palest shade of amber, near-white like the first rays of sunrise, and speckled with metallic gold; completely unnatural for _eyes_ and definitely arresting against the inky fringe of eyelashes.

Again, the impression returns that Alec is a _good_ person, someone that should absolutely be trusted. He'd helped Jane just now, hadn't he? And he doesn't make Jane feel uncomfortable, like so many other men do, and that lack of prey instinct rearing its ugly head is probably what convinces her.

Jane leans forward, pushing her wrist across the table to give Alec a better view of the bracelet. "You know what this is, don't you?" she wonders in a whisper.

Alec's strangely pale eyes fly up to meet hers and he nods, just a dip of the chin. "Do you?"

"Magic," Jane breathes.

"Yes."

"Someone very special gave this bracelet to me," Jane says. "She was magic. Just like you, right? You're magic, too."

Alec nods again, tilting his head curiously. "Where is this magical person who created this token?"

Jane sits back, holding the bracelet safe against her skin. Should she tell him that, according to Ella, the bracelet is necessary to gain access to the town? No, that is a secret that Jane should keep to her self. "She told me about a place for people like you," she reveals cautiously.

Alec's expression brightens. "You mean to say, you know about a refuge?"

"I suppose I do," Jane answers.

"Do you know where it is?"

Jane hesitates for a beat, dropping her eyes. She has a choice to make, right now, and she hopes desperately that she is making the right one. "If I tell you," she begins timidly. "Will you take me with you?"

Alec blinks. "If that is what you desire, then I think that is a fair exchange."

Jane's stomach flutters in excitement. "We have a deal, then."

Alec smiles widely. "Great. What is this refuge called?"

Jane's answer is prompt, fueled by the happy idea of finally biting the bullet and doing what she's wanted to do for so long. It's so… _hedonistic_ to so abruptly sign up for an escape from the city, but part of her battered heart settles at the prospect, and she cannot stop the joyous smile the breaks across her face.

"Charmstone," she tells him confidently. "It's called Charmstone."

* * *

 **A/N: I debated on breaking this into two interludes, but obviously I decided to not do that. To really drive it home, though, Alec and Jane _are not related_ in this fic. I'm actually not 100% certain that they're twins in canon either and I'm too lazy to go look it up. Whatever. I do what I want, apparently.**

 **And, again I'm deliberately branching out into other ethnicities in this story, because there's a whole world of non-white non-American's out there and I like mixing things up. If you were wondering, the Japanese name Nao is pronounced like the word "now" and the name Akira means "bright", because I'm _super_ creative, okay.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	130. part 9: 1: never fear the fall

**part nine**

* * *

 **one**

 **never fear the fall**

* * *

The day after her return to her own time, Ella wakes in the comfort of her bed in the loft over _The Magic Shop_ and the distinctly _new_ experience of another body slumbering next to hers. Anthony had not left the night before, but neither had they done anything other than sleep. It's surreal to bask in this newfound knowledge that she is as close to internal peace as she can possibly be when he is near to her; never had she ever entertained the thought that she could do something so normal as voluntarily share a bed with someone. Her sleep had been so uninterrupted, too.

They aren't cuddling, or anything. Anthony is sprawled on his back, one arm limp on his stomach while his other hand is reaching in her direction. Ella turns onto her side, watching him sleep with a torpid gaze, timing out his slow, heavy breathing. He doesn't wear a shirt to sleep and she is provided with the sublime view of his naked torso, a construct of lean muscles and narrow hips and pale skin just barely kissed by the sun. Her fingers itch to sketch out the details of his body; near his naval, there is a scatter of dark moles drifting beneath the band of his shorts; the hair trailing between his hips, tucked beneath his arms, and gathering as scruff beneath his chin is several shades darker than the burnt toffee hair atop his head and twice as curly. Instead of drawing him, however, Ella reaches out to softly trail her fingers over the dip of his elbow, tracing the bluish veins beneath the surface all the way down to his wrist.

Anthony's fingers twitch in his sleep and a smirk tilts at her lips. Is he ticklish? She never would have imagined - he's so _serious_ all the time, and she knows that's partially her fault. But things are different now. Aren't they?

She sighs, pulling her hand back to push messy strands of dark hair off her face, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her lips still feel tender from all the kisses of the day previous. _That_ part is definitely different, this freedom to encroach upon each other's personal space. Before her time in the past, Anthony had restrained himself so wholly from even the barest of touches - unless her life was in danger - and for herself, well, Ella's upbringing didn't exactly encourage her to be unguarded with her personal boundaries. Now, after yesterday and all the days before then, there is a distinct change. She doesn't precisely _crave_ his touch, but she does welcome it.

She wonders how much that has to do with the way their lifelines snapped together during that first kiss. Looking at it now, her bright silver melting into his dark lupine gold, she can't imagine her lifeline looking any different, like it had _always_ been this way even though she knows that isn't the case. But then, _soulmates_.

Ella isn't about to question it. She likes the look of it and the way she can sort of _feel_ him, anyway.

"Staring," Anthony mumbles.

Ella _does not_ blush. "What nonsense are you speaking?"

He turns his head on the pillow, languid green-gold eyes searching hers for a moment before his scarred brow raises. "You were staring," he says.

"I was not," she lies, sitting up on her hip to stare down at him. She's still wearing the shirt that belonged to him in the past, which is entirely too big with the collar gaping around her neck and the short sleeves falling to her elbows. "You were snoring. It woke me up."

Anthony stares at her doubtfully. "Uh huh."

She notices a pillow crease imprinted on the side of his face and, inexplicably, feels warm all over. She shared a _bed_ with Anthony without even really thinking about it and _this_ is the morning after. It would probably be less awkward if they'd had sex, honestly.

Hastily, Ella slips out of the bed, padding across the loft on bare feet. She uses magic to flick on her beloved and _sorely missed_ coffee pot, and then begins to rifle through the clothes rack she installed outside of the closet, which being used for storage. Ella pointedly ignores the weight of his eyes tracing down her back and the stir of interest she can feel from him, keeping face forward so that he can't spy the heat of her face. She's feeling fucking _bashful_ and doesn't really understand why.

It was only sleeping. She has not reason to be shy - _and_ _yet_.

"You going somewhere?" he asks after she has buttoned her jeans over her hips and stuffed her feet into her boots.

Ella pauses, abruptly realizing that she's just changed clothes in front of him. Kind of for the second time. Maybe she should have a specific feeling about that, but it hadn't even crossed her mind to change elsewhere. It's like - okay, she knows he isn't _leering_ , even though his gaze is appreciative, and she just isn't bothered by it. Really. It's different, somehow. Less intimate than waking up next to him, maybe.

Finger-combing her hair into some semblance of order, Ella turns back around and eyes the way he has swung his legs over the side of the bed and is ruffling his hair sleepily. He isn't an early riser, his speech still slow from sleep, a bit cloudy around the edges. Surprisingly _cute_ , actually.

Ella steps closer, drawn to the space between his knees, her hands on his shoulder and one of his low on her hip. Idly, she follows the corded muscle of his shoulder and shrugs. "I need to check on the wards," she tells him. "I tampered with them in the past. And since I didn't know I messed with the wards until I messed with the wards, I suspect they're probably weakening."

"Which explains the hunters," he says knowingly.

She nods. Limited by not being connected to the ley lines when she previously altered the wards around the town - and around the Masen territory - the wards have obviously been failing for some time as evidenced by the hunters actually crossing the town line back before she tripped into the past.

"We have unfinished business," she declares darkly.

Anthony frowns. "Probably more than you realize."

Her brows shoot upward at the gravity in his tone. "What do you mean?"

His jaw ticks, thumb rapping against her hip bone. "Don't you think it's strange that the hunters didn't come back around until you moved into town?"

"You think they've been keeping tabs on me."

"It's possible," he admits sourly.

Ella exhales, silently agreeing. He's probably right, especially because she trusts that Anthony would be the first one to tell her if the hunters had been sniffing around during the time where she'd been absent before Carlisle moved them to Charmstone in late 2016. There does seem to be something deliberate about all the timing and since her allies aren't the only ones who know about her time travel…

"Even more reason to go out and adjust the wards," she decides.

"Hold on." Anthony bites back a yawn, then shuffles around her to stand. "Give me a minute and I'll come with you."

Ella blinks. "You really don't need to."

"I know," he says simply. "I want to."

And that, it seems, is that. She rolls her eyes at the closed bathroom door, inhaling her first mug of too-hot coffee and then trading places in the bathroom once he's finished, and in companionable quietness, they leave the loft and trek out to the forest. It feels _right_ that Anthony is watching her back as she drifts around the borders, locating the trees where she carved sigils originally, and then kneeling over one of the ley line convergences to really reinforce her warding. It takes a few hours before she feels confident in the fact that anyone with bad intentions will be have a difficult time crossing the town line; the worse their intent, the more befuddled they will be at the Charmstone borders, and that should give her enough time to teleport around to investigate, given how sensitive she is to the fluctuations of her wards.

It isn't perfect, but it's a working solution. Ella has learned a thing or two from her time in the past - namely the benefits of being on the defensive, of being prepared for the inevitable.

Whenever the hunters come back around - and they will, because that kind of bigotry doesn't die easily and because she has the sense that they are working with _someone_ , the supplier of the manchineel ash - then Ella will be ready. She'll be waiting for them, even.

And she won't be alone.

Standing side-by-side at the edge of the town, Anthony reaches for her hand and catches her eyes. "Let them come," he mutters.

"I dare them."

* * *

 **A/N: Welcome to Part 9! It's probably at least 10-15 scenes long right now and the arc as a whole is going to be building toward later arcs, so buckle in for some character development.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	131. part 9: 2: bombshell

**two**

 **bombshell**

* * *

"You seem different," Alice observes with a shrewdly assessing glance.

Despite the fact that Ella is coming from _The Magic Shop_ and seriously running late, she and Alice have met up about halfway to Carlisle's house for the family dinner that Ella suspects Esme is trying to make into a regular weekend thing. While it isn't so unusual that Ella is skirting the politeness of being "fashionably late", it is sort of weird that _Alice_ is doing the same since she's pretty sure Punctuality is Alice's middle name. By the lingering pink in her adoptive sister's cheeks, Ella finds herself wondering if Alice was _with someone_ , like, on a _date_. Because why else would Alice be late to anything?

Ella shakes her head in dismay at her own curiosity, and then she parses through what Alice has just said and sighs. "Of course you'd notice," she grumbles, kicking a rock down the sidewalk.

Alice stares. "Notice _what_? That you're more…settled than you were a week ago? Anybody with eyes can tell that something has changed."

Ella has kind of been hoping that her recent maturation hadn't been as obvious as Alice makes it sound and it is something of a letdown to learn otherwise. Still. "A week for you, maybe," she declares with a shrug. "More like two months for me."

"Pardon?"

Ella halts in her tracks, pivoting to step in front of Alice as she comes to a sudden decision. "Alice, what I'm about to tell you has to stay between us." After a brief moment, the banshee nods in agreement, delivering to Ella the full weight of her expectant stare, and Ella stuffs her hands into the pockets of her jacket. "Alright. So, in a nutshell, I accidentally wound up in a time loop that landed me in 2015, where I was more or less stranded, and I've only been back in the present for a few days. Hence, my _differences_ since you last saw me."

Alice blinks, the shock in her expression somehow still seeming unbearably proper. "Excuse me, but did you just confess to time travel?"

"Accidentally time traveling."

"Accidentally," Alice echoes faintly.

A tug pulls at the corner of Ella's mouth. "Yes, completely by accident. And we are absolutely not telling anyone remotely parental about it," she says decisively, then wrinkles her nose. "God, but can you imagine the coronary Carlisle would have? He can't ever know."

"I rather think any sane person _would_ have a spectacular reaction to that kind of bombshell," Alice points out, not unkindly. She straightens her shoulders and fiddles with the long white pendant hanging around her neck. "However, I see your point," she concedes with a tiny frown. "Ignorance is sometimes bliss."

"Glad to hear it," says Ella as she starts back up the sidewalk.

Several moments pass in silence, the warmth of the late summer sun dying the sky in rich reds and golds and pinks. And then Alice asks, "What exactly happened in this time loop? I mean, assuming that a time loop would indicate that no events of the past actually _changed_ , then that would mean…"

"I was a _bit_ slower to come to that realization myself," Ella says drolly, tilting her head back with a sigh. "A lot of crappy, unavoidable things happened. The lowlights involve arson and some quality face time with a bunch of murdery hunters."

"Goodness," Alice breathes, almost immediately followed by a sharp intake of breath. "The Masen fire from three years ago? That was _you_?"

"It was _hunters_ ," Ella corrects sharply. Witnessing the fire is finally settling in as a trauma banked pretty deep in the back of her mind; she's woken up a few times from nightmares of the manchineel ash bursting into flames and the crackling of wood being loud enough to quiet the screams of small children. Anthony has had three years to come to terms with witnessing something so horrific, but it's still fresh in Ella's mind and part of her is still coming to terms with it. She has one hell of a grudge against the feckless assholes who started the whole thing, but most of her ire is reserved for whoever the supplier is.

Because the supplier needs to burn for what they've done.

"That's…awful. You know, that fire was the first time I felt the urge to scream. Now I know why…"

Ella casts a commiserative look at Alice, but remains silent, fixing her eyes firmly forward. Why did she tell Alice about the time travel? There isn't really a solid reason in Ella's mind other than the weak little urge sitting guiltily in the back of her throat - she wanted to talk about it to get it off her chest with someone who would understand. And Alice does understand in a way that Peter or Bree or even Anthony would not. When Alice has the urge to scream, to break open the void and pass souls onto death, she does so with the knowledge that her hands are tied, that she is helpless to do anything but act as an usher. Now, Ella knows what that feels like.

She doesn't like it at all.

"What about the highlights?" Alice wonders, abruptly ripping Ella out of her contemplation.

"What?"

"You told me about the lowlights, so there must have been something relatively good that happened in comparison," Alice explains, curiosity evident in her expression.

Inexplicably, heat rushes to Ella's face. "Oh, uh…"

"You and Anthony, right?" Alice says knowingly with a sly smile. "About time."

"Okay, come on," Ella complains loudly as they tread nearer to the blueberry house, with warm yellow lights shining through the windows and looking like _home_ in a way that it didn't in Ella's recent past. "You can't say shit like that, like you knew the _entire_ time or something. That's such bullshit."

"But it's true, isn't it?"

Ella huffs.

"I'm glad." Alice smiles again with a small laugh. "Wow. This explains _so much_ about his general grouchiness."

Ella rolls her eyes. "I'm so over this sisterly bonding. How about we level the field?" she asks with a penetrating stare. "How's Jasper these days?"

"That is _totally_ different," Alice says with flushed cheeks, following Ella onto the porch.

"Is it?" Ella wonders teasingly. She's about to say something else, but then the door opens and Carlisle is standing on the other side. Her throat tightens at seeing him after what has been so long, at least for her. This is the longest that she's ever been separated from him since he adopted her and she really didn't like it at all. His horn-rimmed glasses and blond hair and gentle blue eyes all look the same, like comfort and safety. "Oh, hey Dad," she says, surprising them both with a fleetingly quick hug before she squeezes past him into the house.

Carlisle blinks and then smiles widely. "Ella, Alice," he greets, the lilt of his British accent sounding so elated it almost makes her feel guilty for being so staunch with her affection before. He gives Alice a hug and stands back to look between them proudly. "Lovely to see you two getting along so well."

"Boy-talk does that for girls," Ella says wryly, ignoring Alice's withering stare and watching with bemusement as Carlisle's expression grows overly concerned.

"Boys?" he frowns. "Aren't you both a little young for boyfriends?"

Alice stares at him oddly. "We aren't nuns," she says carefully.

Ella snorts.

Carlisle gapes at them both, working his mouth soundlessly.

And then Esme appears from the kitchen, a dainty yellow apron tied over her dress and not a single meticulous hair out of place. With a glint in her eye giving away the fact that she's clearly overheard this conversation, she pats Carlisle's shoulder consolingly. "Darling, are you trying to catch flies in your mouth?"

His teeth clack together and he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Esme, they're talking about dating."

All three of them stare at Carlisle as if he's being particularly _slow_.

"And why shouldn't they be dating?" Esme wonders with an elegantly raised brow. "College is the perfect time to explore relationships. Why, we met in college, didn't we, darling?"

"Oh, right." Ella snaps her fingers. "About that. I'm not going back to school."

"Ella!" Carlisle says in shock.

Alice leans to the side. "A little more tact might have been beneficial," she whispers.

Ella scoffs and slips her jacket off, hanging it on the new coat tree in the foyer which is almost certainly a contribution from Esme. "What's the point of beating around the bush? It isn't like I'm just dropping out without a plan. I have the shop," she points out bluntly. "I'm just skipping a step."

 _And_ , she adds mentally. _Being tied to Charmstone seems like it's a full time job._

"Are you very sure about this?" Carlisle asks with a stern scrunch to his brow. "Because a college degree is essential these days and -"

"What, should I make a pro and con list so you'll be convinced?" Ella interjects sardonically. She rolls her eyes and sighs, making an effort to tramp down the irritation that has begun to build. "Of course I'm sure. I'm not here to seek your approval. I've already decided. I just thought you'd want to know from me instead of a letter sent by the school."

"Well, I…" Carlisle rubs his forehead, exchanging a weighted look with Esme. "Naturally, I support whatever life choices you make, provided they are made responsibly. It's clear you've thought about this and you understand the consequences. That's all I can ask."

"Thanks, Dad."

Esme clasps her hands together. "I think it's an admirable choice. A very bold route to take," she says as she leads them all to the table. She passes around a plat of tender roast beef and potatoes, smiling as she smooths a napkin onto her lap.

Ella tilts her head to the side as she eyes Carlisle. "As bold as dating a werewolf?" she wonders, admittedly a little bit vindictive.

Carlisle drops his fork with a clatter.

* * *

 **A/N: Oh, Ella. You have _no idea_ how much of a full time job it's going to be. But I do.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	132. part 9: 3: one more heart attack

**three**

 **one more heart attack**

* * *

"So, _this_ is your dorm? Interesting." Ella peers around with some vague sense of satisfaction, imagining that seeing Anthony's dorm room is not unlike getting a real-life equivalent of the inside of his mind.

The space is a little larger than her old dorm, with room for a double instead of a twin mattress and a shelf built into the wall, but the window is smaller. Even though he has finished unpacking, the space still has a Spartan quality; there are no extraneous items of clutter, no perfunctory decorations. The dark olive bedspread, the firm pillows, the books overflowing the shelves and the empty mug full of pens and highlighters on the desk are all stark, straightforward and serious, just like Anthony. That isn't to say that the space is lacking in personality, though, or that it's dull. It's just utilitarian and simplistic, with the one concession to design being the wide poster mounted on the wall depicting a dark forest broken through with dappling sunlight - an ode to the wolf, if ever there was one.

Ella scans the titles of the books she'd shelved with magic, somehow unsurprised to see Russian authors and high-concept science fiction peppered through a bleak collection of American authors, both great and contemporary. She recognizes a few of the smaller paperbacks as being the ones he sticks in the back pocket of his jeans and is delighted to find that he has hardback editions of the books he bends and rolls and carries with him. He doesn't have any obvious bookmarks but the pages of the books are dog-eared, and more than one is marked with several neon sticky notes jutting from the side of the books; and she knows from watching him read that he has a baffling habit of writing annotating the margins with shitty Bic pens. There isn't any pretentious reverence he holds as to how books should be treated and she finds that she likes that - his passion is so keen and so apparent and it's kind of thrilling to learn how much intensity he has lurking behind a surly-faced façade.

The corners of her mouth twitch and she's relieved that she's facing the bookshelves so that the moment of warmth passing through her breast is relatively private. Or rather, as private as anything can get around a werewolf. She's sure her body is throwing off all kinds of chemical scent signals that give Anthony one hell of a clue, but she'll have to make peace with that.

Finished with tucking flattened boxes beneath his bed, Anthony moves behind her, running warm hands along her shoulders and down her arms so that he might catch her hands. A fleeting kiss lands on the back of her neck. "Glad you convinced Peter not to lend a hand. I like the quiet," he mutters wanly.

Ella scoffs, shaking her head minutely. It's true that when Anthony announced he would be moving back to Howell Hall, the dorm for werewolves attending Viridity, an entire month before the official fall semester began because of his mother's apparent hovering. Anthony is currently under _strong_ encouragement to complete the trio of werewolves required for a pack to affirm his status as an alpha which is - apparently - not completely secure until he finds that elusive third beta. And as Anthony is evidently _done_ hearing about it, he'd elected to live back on campus - he'd even spoken to the Dean about it and everything.

And of course the moment Peter heard about this, he'd volunteered to help his alpha lug all his belongings across town, to which Anthony's primary response had been a widening of his green-gold eyes in thinly-concealed alarm. Ella, having been present when this was being hashed out, took pity on her boyfriend - a word that sounds so trite, but not as sappy as _soulmate_ \- and declared that _she_ would facilitate the move. After all, between her ability to teleport and Anthony's mathom-free lifestyle, Peter's _assistance_ really wasn't necessary.

Especially because Peter was _definitely_ using helping Anthony as an excuse to go over to the Masen house and seek Riley's affections - because Peter and Riley are a _thing_ now, with merging vibrant orange and deep teal lifelines denoting that their thing is actually very serious. Because, like, soulmates don't just _happen_ when two people are casually dating.

Feelings have to be present, along with a certain kind of compatibility that Ella only has the vaguest chance of interpreting. This doesn't take away from the fact that Charmstone as a town is being populated by quite a few soulmates - a phenomenon that was decidedly absent in human cities, like New York City, which she has so recently had the opportunity to observe. Are soulmates reserved only for supernatural people? Then how would that explain humans like Lillian, who became the soulmate of a centuries-old kelpie? Maybe soulmates only require one supernatural element in the relationship? She has no idea. And, really, it's not even useful information to possess in the grander scheme, not in comparison to refining her knowledge of magic or learning exactly how to manipulate the lifelines she can see with her magician's vision.

Ella tilts her head back against Anthony's chest. "Quiet is a bit of an understatement. Campus is like a ghost town," she points out mildly.

"That's the appeal," he returns. " _'Hell is other people.'"_

Ella twists around, eyebrows raised. "That's clever. I like that. Totally agree."

Anthony looks amused. "It's a quote from a play written an existentialist philosopher, Jean-Paul Sartre."

"Okay, whatever. I still like it."

"Would you like to borrow the screenplay?"

Ella wrinkles her nose. "Pass. I don't like it that much," she tells him. Then she sighs. "I have to go."

Anthony's arms tighten around her waist. "So soon?"

"Peter is waiting for me at the shop. Now that all the renovations are done, he's dead-set on creating an inventory of products before the opening in September," she grouses. Because for all that she appreciates Peter pouring all of his spare time into _The Magic Shop_ , Ella would really like to take a break for a day. But she can't, because the second she suggests it, Peter's face does this _thing_ and it's like she's kicking a puppy and in the long run, it's easier to just follow the little schedule pinned up in the basement workroom than try to get out of doing the work.

"You can stay for five minutes," Anthony says, and his hands slip low on her waist, one of his fingers edging beneath her top.

Her heart flutters, heat tingling down her spine and pooling deep in her belly. "Five minutes," she agrees, licking her lips.

It is not five minutes.

Somehow, one kiss turns into several, and then several chaste kisses turn into long, open-mouthed exchanges, and then before Ella rightly knows how, she is completely lost. Pulse pounding in her chest, she feels the softness of the bed against her back and the firmness of her wolf against her front, and the heat generating between them makes her dizzy. He's being mindful of himself, of course, careful not to let his hands stray as he holds his hips away from hers - but still, on the turn of a dime, something suddenly changes with _her_. It doesn't matter how considerate he is or how much she enjoys the explosive chemistry between them or how much she likes the swelling of her lips, because between one second and the next, she abruptly feels trapped -

Small and helpless and _caught -_

And there is a bubble of her magic beneath her skin, an undertaking stoked by the rapid panic mounting between her ribs - she can't _breathe_ -

 _Pop_.

Ella disappears from beneath Anthony and reappears in the middle of the room, clothes askew and eyes burning silver, wide and too bright and burning with tears she _will not_ allow to fall. Anthony hastily lurches away from the bed at her absence, spinning around and wilting at the sight of her. And she can't stand the crestfallen glimmer in his eye, just like she can't stand the hesitant way he reaches for her, or the way he rounds his shoulders in a bid to appear non-threatening.

Ella flinches away from him, curling her arms around her middle. "I-I don't know what's wrong with me, Tony, I just can't -" Ella swallows, biting on her lips. "I have to go. I'm sorry."

"Ella, wait-"

She squeezes her eyes shut, so ashamed of her own pathetic weakness that she can't bear to look at him anymore - and she is so infuriated by her inexplicable shame, and the _confusion_ of where the panic that crawls up her throat is coming from, that it's all she can do to turn in place and teleport away.

Ella lands in the forest, a scream working its way out of her throat, and takes out all of her frustration on the trees around her. Why? _Why_? Why can't she be normal - why can't she just _be_ with Anthony the way she wants to - _Why_ _why why_ -

Panting, Ella drops her weight against the pulverized bark on a creaking tree, forehead scraping against the wood as she holds herself up, as weak in the knees as she must be in her mind. She isn't _over_ _it_ the way she thought she would be after she absolved her guilt with Jane. How stupid is she, thinking that it would be that simple to just get over Duncan's attack? He'd tried to strangle her, his hand shoved down her pants, and even though magic had saved her, she's all too aware of how easily it might have gone the other way.

She's spent years telling herself that it wasn't as bad in comparison to what happened to Jane. Ella had not been raped and she's been through more traumatic events since Duncan - and yet all the rationalizing in the world doesn't seem to matter. She can't seem to get around it. And she can't wrap her head around _why_ -

Ella fishes for the phone shoved in the inner pocket of her jacket, scrolling through the contact list with a thump of her heart. She dials, listening to the trill of the ringing phone, and sighs when the other end of the line is picked up.

"Kebi, it's Ella. I think I…need an appointment."

* * *

 **A/N: A _mathom_ is a word that Tolkien invented that is used by hobbits to describe useless shit that they won't throw away. This chapter isn't a mathom, but I do like the word. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	133. part 9: 4: the one in control

**four**

 **the one in control**

* * *

Ella sits cross-legged on the bed, picking at her nails as she waits in the solitude of the dark room - as she waits for Anthony to return from where ever he is this late at night. She'll be the first to admit that inviting herself into his living space after what happened the last time they saw each other is about twelve different types of inconsiderate. But then, after the day _she's_ had, all she can really think about is seeking the kind of comfort very few people can provide to her.

And Carlisle and Peter are not the ones she needs to be talking to - because Anthony is the one who is owed an explanation.

Therapy was…difficult. Ella has come away from her session with Kebi with her head spinning into a dark, desolate place of self-incrimination and bucket loads of confusion and a limp-limbed sort of acceptance that Ella's life will never, ever be easy.

She's damaged. She's always going to _be_ damaged. It's how she's going to deal with that damage that is going to make all the difference.

( _Kebi listens attentively, pointedly not taking notes as Ella rages and rambles through an explanation of the events - minus her casual murder and bizarre time traveling, of course - that have led her back to the office sooner than anticipated. After the intense short-term therapy over the winter, it had been decided that Ella would have a regular session with Kebi about once a month, but then Kebi had given birth and taken maternity leave and Ella had been dealing with Peter and everything else, and suffice to say that Ella's progress in therapy had been interrupted._

 _Kebi listens to Ella for nearly an hour this session, allowing Ella the time to articulate her feelings to the best of her ability, and Ella is glad for it because even though they'd talked about Duncan before, all of these random panic attacks are bringing back feelings and memories that Ella had been repressing - about that incident with Duncan when she was fifteen, but also about all the harassment that Ella had endured before and after. Things that she's forcibly qualified as_ normal _for foster care, but that really isn't. Not just sexual things, either, but physical violence and exposure to drug usage and verbal abuse and neglect - everything that has shaped Ella into something so jagged and prickly but that has also left her with a strongly misplaced guilt complex that makes her feel like everything is_ her _fault, even when it isn't. And it's those things, more than Duncan, that have her mouth moving faster and faster, trying to explain why it is she feels the need to try and save people - maybe because she knows she is strong enough for it that just standing by idly is as bad as doing the harm in the first place._

 _"I'm so fucked up," she says. "I am so twisted. I don't even make sense to me and I just - I want to have one normal thing. Just one."_

 _"Your relationship with your paramour," Kebi confirms._

 _"Yes, I just…I don't get it. I really don't. He isn't an asshole, you know? He isn't pushy, he isn't pressuring. He's just…and I am not. I'm just not."_

 _Kebi taps her pen against her chin. "You've led a very difficult life, Ella, one that has been filled by several traumatic events that most people would consider singular, one-time occurrences. But they aren't for you and you seem to be under a misapprehension of what constitutes normal -"_

 _"Maybe," Ella interjects aggressively. "But I do know what normal is and I know that I am so far from normal it isn't even remotely funny."_

 _Kebi dips her head. "And sex in a relationship is something you consider normal? You believe that sex should immediately be had in a relationship to act as a sort of affirmation, correct?"_

 _"Obviously."_

 _"What do you say about those who wait for marriage, then? Would you say that they are abnormal?" And at that, Ella pauses for a long moment, the silence stretching until Kebi continues, incredibly tactful as always. "While it is true that many relationships share a sexual component, I think you must first decide why sex is important to_ you _. Why is it that you feel sex is necessary for a relationship that is just starting out?"_

 _Ella stares ahead silently._

 _"There are a million different ways to have a romantic relationship, Ella, and a thousand different paces that people take. Everyone is different in how fast or slow a relationship moves. For you, it could be the case that you are better suited to a slower pace, which doesn't appear to be a problem for your partner." Kebi pauses, seeming to weigh her words. "If I may be candid, with your unique history, I think it would be most beneficial if you were to forgo any notion of what you believe_ normal _to be."_

 _Ella frowns heavily, pushing a hand through her hair. It sounds too easy, too simple, to be real._

 _Kebi must see the skepticism in her expression, though. "Ella, I'm going to ask you several questions and I want you to consider them thoroughly. I am not looking for an answer. You don't need to tell me or anyone else the answers to these questions. These are just things that it might be beneficial for you to think about," Kebi advises._

 _"Okay."_

 _"What do you want from this relationship? Is it long-term? Short-term? Do you honestly feel comfortable with this person? Do you trust him, not just trust him to not harm you, but trust him with your past and your future?" Kebi hesitates, exhaling softly. "And then I want you to think about this panic you feel when intimacy is on the horizon. Why do you feel suffocated, caged, trapped? Is it a fear of being physically pinned, of being smaller, of being helpless - or is it a fear of giving yourself completely to another person and putting all of your trust into someone else that makes you panic? Is it both? And if it is, then how can you reclaim that fear? What can_ you _do to make this better for yourself?"_

 _Ella's throat feels tight, but she files these questions away - fully prepared to contemplate them._

 _What can she do to make this better for herself?)_

Ella has been thinking very hard about Kebi's questions. Her relationship with Anthony is a long-term arrangement - but just because they're soulmates and have shared in that awful time loop and a dozen other horrific incidents doesn't mean that Ella is wholly comfortable with him. She _is_ , but she isn't. She wants to be, but she isn't there yet. Accepting that her trust in Anthony is not as complete as she presumed is a tough pill to swallow, but she can sort of see where she went wrong.

She thought that just because she's feeling lust for him, that just because she's attracted to him and can recognize the soul link between them, that she should just be fully prepared to fall into a relationship. Maybe if Ella were like Alice or Bree, that would be true. But Ella is only like Ella and she has never, not once, been in this position - where she is given this universally destined relationship with someone so compatible, with someone who she shares such a history with -

It isn't necessarily that she distrusts Anthony, because she trusts him with her life and her safety and to do what is necessary and to depend on. She _trusts_ in him in that way. But trusting him with her heart is something different, because even while she intellectually knows that he isn't the type to purposefully hurt her, she also knows that there is a _weight_ to their relationship. It's been iron shackles around their ankles the moment they first kissed.

They are soulmates. It's one hell of an expectation to live up to - for both of them.

It's more than she's ready for, if she's being honest, and maybe that's why the panic starts when things get steamy between them.

Because Ella knows that she doesn't have a problem crossing bases with perfect strangers while she is intoxicated, but she can't do the same with Anthony - with Anthony, it's always going to _mean_ something. And Ella knows what it will mean and Anthony will know what it will mean, and there they are again with the hefty soulmate pricetag between them, linking them up before they're ready for it. Or at least before Ella is ready for it.

She might love him, but she's terrified of that feeling - she doesn't know how to deal with something that is all-encompassing and so irrevocable. Everything between them is so intense and happening so far and Ella isn't prepared.

The other part, the stuff with Duncan and previous foster parents and strangers, that's something else entirely. It's probably about half the sheer distaste for being reminded that she is so much physically smaller - that she _can_ be pinned and caged and held down - and also half the daunting prospect of letting her guard down. Vulnerability is not something Ella is well-acquainted with and intimacy even less so - but she's _twice_ allowed herself to be in a position where both were required. Hell, _she put herself_ in those positions and some part of her knew full well that she was in over her head, hence the mindless panic.

Too much, too soon.

Which is why she is in Anthony's dorm room, waiting for him to return, stomping down the anxiety that continues to rise each time the little analog clock on his desk stutters forward another minute. She tries not to dial into the link between their souls, but she knows that he's closer now than he was ten minutes before, and it's all Ella can do to force herself to stay right where she is. She pulls her knees to her chest, locking her arms around her shins, in a bid to remain immobile.

The door opens, light flicking on, and Anthony doesn't look even moderately surprised to find her sat firmly on his bed. He's staring at her with some amount of caution, though, and it makes her stomach twist unpleasantly.

"It's not you," she says quickly, words tumbling out of her mouth.

Anthony's scarred brow ticks upward as he closes the door quietly. "I know," he mutters softly.

Ella winces a bit. "It's kind of you, though."

"You'll need to expound on that."

She gestures between them, thinking about the words that have been churning in her mind for the last several hours. Resorting to an unreserved frankness, Ella says, "I'm not good at people. Emotions other than anger are really difficult for me to deal with and you…are unlike anyone I've ever encountered."

Anthony sits at his desk chair, crossing his arms over the back as he leans forward intently. She has the feeling that all of his senses are trained on her and it's more than a little disconcerting. He isn't saying anything, though; he's giving her time to collect her thoughts.

"I need to be the one in control," she says bluntly. "I need to set the pace so this thing doesn't overwhelm me. Again. Because it isn't fair to you that I keep running away and it isn't fair to me to keep putting myself through that when I know I'm not ready and - I know, _I know_ that you aren't asking for more than I'm willing to give, but the problem is that I don't even know what I'm willing to give…"

"Okay," he agrees easily, just like some part of her knew he would. His eyes turn serious, the verdant green glittering as his ears redden "But just so you know, it's enough for me to just be around you right now. Holding your hand is more than enough."

Her chest flutters at that and without even thinking, Ella says, "Do you want to go out?"

"Right now?" he asks, shooting a look at the clock.

It's nearly midnight.

"Tomorrow, I mean," she clarifies.

Anthony smiles, a gentle expression that she's never actually seen before. "Consider it a date."

Ella considers it a step in the right direction.

* * *

 **A/N: I do, too. While I'm firmly of the "To Each Their Own" school of thought, I personally think that there is something to be said for relationships that build over time and that don't rush the physical side of things. Not that this is going to be _Hallelujah_ , no per-marital sex pacing, but they weren't ever just going to fall into bed together. Except for that one time that they literally fell into bed together to sleep. Whatever. I'm trying to portray this part of Ella's characterization with as much accuracy as possible and I want to do it right.**

 **Moving on - where do you think their first date will be? I'm entertaining suggestions.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	134. part 9: 5: seconds and hours take time

**five**

 **seconds and hours have to take time**

* * *

"Here, take this," Anthony says the moment he slouches out of Sam's Diner, weighed down by a large, stiff brown paper bag. In one hand he is holding out a cup of coffee, which she gladly relieves him of; after taking a sip, she quirks her brow curiously to the paper bag and a ghost of a playful smile crosses his face. "It's our dinner."

"Clearly," she returns dryly as she follows along after him. After a few minutes, their general destination becomes clear to her and she stares at the broadness of his shoulders in dismay. "You're dragging me out to the woods for a date?"

"Most people would call it a picnic," he replies blandly.

Ella isn't sure how she feels about this, really. In her heart of hearts, she is very much a city girl and while she may be forever tied to the ley lines in Charmstone, she does not hold any particular love for _nature_. Especially in this forest, where only awful things seem to happen with any sort of consistency. "I'm not big on surprises," she hears herself saying dubiously.

Anthony looks over his shoulder at her. "Alright. We're going to go to my favorite place in the entire forest and eat cheeseburgers. And then once we're done with that, the _original_ plan was for a bunch of clowns to pop out of nowhere to entertain us, but since the secret is out now, I'll have to nix that part of the evening."

Ella squints at him. "Why clowns?"

"I like clowns."

"Nobody likes clowns. They're creepy as hell."

"Only Pennywise," he counters with a frown.

She stares at him in complete bafflement. "I can't tell if you're being serious or not."

Anthony's lips twitch and she bats at his shoulder in retribution for his _teasing_ \- and then she feels light in the chest, because this is normal, isn't it? Her boyfriend - partner, friend, soulmate - teasing her just for the hell of it, just because he can, and the needle of worry that's been poking at her brain for the better part of the day, wondering if this outing was a mistake of epic proportions, totally disappears. This is a good idea. Dating. Ella Cullen is on a date, just like any other normal eighteen year old.

It's almost surreal.

No. It _is_ surreal.

For all that Ella has spent the past year or so exploring the vast forest around Charmstone, the place that Anthony takes her to isn't even a little bit vaguely familiar. With the steep sides of a ravine on their end and a tiny steam cutting straight through the tiny meadow, there is something very lovely about this place; vines crawl up the craggy rock set into the ravine and the tall grass is pliable and the late summer has brought out a thousand wildflowers that tangle together beneath the twilight sky. Immediately, she can see why this place would be his favorite - it's utterly quiet, removed from the rest of Charmstone without being several miles away from the town, and untouched in its perfection. Anthony might be the only person who knows that it exists. Until now.

A thought niggles in the back of her mind, though, as she mentally tries to place where this hidden meadow is, and she looks at him with understanding in her eyes. "This is where you…" She doesn't finish the sentence, but the words still hang between them. _This is where you howled, mourned my absence for two years, escaped from your expectations_ , _finished becoming the man you are now_.

He nods as he sets the paper bag down on a small boulder. "This is my refuge," he confirms. He looks up at her, eyes dark. "Yours too, I suppose. If you want."

Instead of answering - unsure if she even _can_ answer to something so truthful, something so disarmingly private - Ella waves her hand at the space between them, conjuring a blanket and two glass jars of warm flame that hover over them as they first sit and eat and then lay on their backs to watch the sky overhead. They do not recline side-by-side, but rather with their bodies in opposite directions and their heads close enough that if she looks at him, her lips would brush his cheeks.

She doesn't turn her head. Instead, they watch as the sky grows dark and as the stars come out, they talk about the most mundane of things.

It's like getting to know someone in reverse. Ella knows all the important things about him - his serious intensity, his stoic bravery, his ability to do what is necessary, his dependability and reliability - but she doesn't know his favorite color or his most embarrassing childhood memory or even his favorite book. Those are the things she learns over the course of the night. While he doesn't have a favorite color exactly, he is partial to greens; his most embarrassing childhood memory involves Bree asking a twelve-year-old Anthony why his showers are suddenly so long; and he can't pick a favorite book, though he does admit to having read _The Lord of the Rings_ more times than he can count.

Maybe she shouldn't be so surprised that learning all these little things about him makes her feel closer to him, but she is genuinely left reeling by the affection bubbling between her ribs every time she learns some miniscule detail. Anthony is so refreshingly, unapologetically straightforward. Unlike her, he isn't riddled with convoluted chasms. Everything that makes _Anthony Masen_ is in plain view for all to see, if only they can get beyond his unwavering solemnity.

It makes her wonder what it is that he sees in _her_.

Because Ella is a mess. Like, all the time. But she isn't about to question it - not out loud, at least.

Even though teleporting them both back to town is an option, she lets him take her hand and lead her from the meadow. It's nice to have this unfettered time that is characterized only by idle talking. She likes the way her hand feels in his, how he doesn't flinch away from the burning coolness of the magician glass wrapped around her fingers and wrist. It's probably the longest Ella has ever held anyone's hand.

As they emerge from the woods onto a neighborhood side street, their discussion about the merits of various Asian foods - Ella, having grown up in New York, has a keen appreciation for spicy Thai and Indian, and Anthony has only ever had the Chinese that is occasionally produced at Sam's Diner - is halted by the appearance of a middle-aged woman wandering aimlessly through the middle of the street.

"That's weird, right?" Ella wonders under her breath, inclining her chin to the woman's somewhat dotty appearance, hair all unkempt and eyes sort of wildly vacant. She's missing a slipper, and there is a smear of brittle dirt coating the bottom of her house robe.

"That's Martha Elizondo, one of the elementary school teachers," he answers mildly.

They both watch as Mrs. Elizondo trudges forward mindlessly, feet scuffling heavily, like her body is just drifting along with a lagging momentum. As the woman passes right by them, there isn't even a speck of recognition in her eyes, as if she hadn't even seen them. If not for the vitality of her dull human lifeline, Ella would have thought the woman was a zombie, or something; and even with her ability to confirm that Mrs. Elizondo is very much alive, it's still unsettling to see someone so slack in the face. Nobody is that unaware of their surroundings - ever.

Ella's magic stirs, a cold chill racing down her spine. "Something isn't right," she declares decisively.

Anthony's fingers tighten around her hand briefly before he untangles his grip and starts off in the direction of the woman, no hesitation at all. "Mrs. Elizondo?" he calls, stepping in front of the woman and bodily blocking her from moving forward.

Ella trails around a loose circle, watching confusion thicken on Mrs. Elizondo's face. "Where am I….Who are…I…" Mrs. Elizondo trails off, soundlessly muttering to herself and shaking her head woodenly.

Ella turns a sharp eye to Anthony and he is frowning heavily, brows knit together as he meets her imploring gaze. "She was my fifth grade teacher," he tells her. "She taught Bree and Riley and Ben, too. She goes to every town meeting and she always chats up her former students. She should know who I am."

"But she doesn't."

"No."

Ella peers at Mrs. Elizondo's lifeline again, reaching out and carefully testing it with her magic. It feels just like any other human lifeline, not particularly strong and not particularly weak, and sort of bland, like salt-free saltine crackers. There is a faint _something_ though, like a sprinkle of rapidly-fading energy. Intuition suggests it's maybe magic, but it's impossible to tell. Ella shakes her head with a shrug. "Does she smell sick? Maybe its, like, dementia or something."

Anthony is quick to deny this possibility. "No, she doesn't smell of illness. Just rose perfume."

"So, she's just confused?"

"Seems like it," he replies with another frown.

And then Mrs. Elizondo faints, right as the hint of maybe-magic fades from her lifeline entirely.

Anthony catches his old teacher, somewhat bewildered by the turn of events, and they unanimously agree to get Mrs. Elizondo to a hospital as soon as possible. It's only after the ambulance is rolling away that Ella turns to him with a wry smile and says, "At least we got through the date before something weird happened."

Anthony rolls his eyes, unamused.

* * *

 **A/N: Did I use my best friend's mother as a plot device? Yes. Yes I did. Shamelessly, too. More importantly, however, here starts the mystery of this arc. Very excited about it.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	135. part 9: 6: totally buggin

**six**

 **totally buggin'**

* * *

Ella has just finished carving a _light_ rune onto the back of a rectangular piece of glass attached to a key chain - a version of a flashlight wherein the glass will glow in the dark - when she notices the approach of several people crossing _The Magic Shop_ 's ward radius. With a resigned sigh, Ella goes about cleaning up the steel table in the basement and hooks several completed key chain glasslights around her fingers. She is in the process of placing the glasslights on display by the time the entrance of the shop bursts open, a charmed tingling bell ringing throughout the entire building with the opening of the door.

"Stop what you're doing immediately! This is a matter of extreme importance!" Bree exclaims as she bustles forward, hair a horrendously vivid shade of cyan and a plastic bag full of snack foods in hand. Bree hones in on the little stairway leading up to the loft and bounces upstairs with a hasty, "Follow me!" thrown over her shoulder.

Ella narrows her eyes at the people remaining - Lillian, who peers at the steadily growing store inventory with interest, and Alice, who meets her gaze with a deadpan look, and Peter, who is wearing an expression that borders on a pout. As there isn't any kind of emergency in town, Ella can't think of a single reason for the sudden invasion of her home. "What's all this about?"

"Girl's Night, apparently," Alice answers primly.

"Girl's Night," Ella echoes.

All eyes flick to Peter, who hunches his shoulders. "I was _tricked_ ," he says defensively. "Like, I'm a boy, okay, and I might be the obligatory gay best friend, but I am a _boy_. It's just, like, I was led to believe that this would be a group thing. Bree totally gaslighted me."

"By buying ice cream?" Alice wonders skeptically.

Peter flaps his hands wildly. "Right in front of my face! She bought it _right in front of me_ to _trick_ me!"

"Did she also trick you into bringing your laptop?" Lillian asks.

" _Yes_ ," Peter says emphatically.

There is a beat of silence, and then Lillian nods to the stairs. "So, we just go up?"

Ella sighs, imagining that Bree has already made herself quite at home and after a day of enchanting items, Ella is tired enough that she can't even entertain the thought of shooing anyone away. "Might as well."

Upstairs, Bree has pushed a storage ottoman away from foot of the bed and is in the process of dropping pillows onto the floor; Ella snaps, freezing the pillows mid-air and deposits them back onto the bed with a droll stare.

"Well, what are we supposed to sit on while we watch the movie?"

"What movie?" asks Peter. "I wasn't told there would be a movie."

Bree's face twists in confusion. "Why else would I make you bring your laptop?"

Peter's mouth drops open. " _That's_ why I'm here? As _technical_ _support_? Oh, my God, this is worse than being invited because I'm gay. You do know I'm a _historian_ , right? Like, we're lucky I even know how to use anything more complex than Google. Really."

"You're being so dramatic," Bree chides, and all that really does is cause she and Peter to devolve into extended bickering even as they putter around, setting up the laptop on the ottoman and logging into Bree's Netflix account and opening bags of Red Vines and kettle-cooked popcorn and peanut M&M's.

Ella rubs the ache in her temple away as she watches the lively interaction, trying to summon anything other than extreme apathy for the situation. She isn't successful, even as she does throw a mournful look to her bed, which she had been so looking forward to sleeping in for at least ten hours.

At some point, Lillian inserts herself between Bree and Peter, effectively ceasing the sibling-like squabbling with her no-nonsense attitude, and that is when Alice turns to Ella with a small smile. "The place turned out very nice. Very you."

Ella tries to see the loft the way it must appear to Alice. Having been there for every moment of renovation and restructuring, Ella has kind of missed the impressive impact of where she lives. While small and with a studio layout - excepting the bathroom, of course - the loft is a place that caters to all of the creature comforts Ella never really had during childhood. The walls in the kitchenette and along the front windows are painted a misty grey; the brick exposed on the rear wall near the bed has been painted stark white; a selection of her favorite pieces from her portfolio hang eclectically around, all bold, striking colors and design. The duvet on the bed is an even-toned slate, but Ella has a fine selection of textured throw pillows, satin and velvet and suede and fuzzy, that she spent an embarrassingly long time selecting. She isn't completely done, of course, because even though they sanded it down and stained it a different color, the little table and chairs set to the side of the kitchen still belonged to the hag and Ella is in search of a rug that feels _just right_ between her toes. But everything in the loft is _hers_ , from the blank canvas leaning against the shelf full of charcoals and paints, to the chipped coffee mugs hanging over the stove and the bare essentials in the refrigerator.

She supposes that the loft does look like Ella, in a way, to someone like Alice. But for all that the space feels like _hers,_ it doesn't feel quite like home. It gets too quiet at night, sometimes.

But not tonight - Bree has seen to that.

After some cajoling, Ella conjures extra blankets and floor pillows, and they all sprawl out around the ottoman to watch _Clueless_. Listening to Bree and Peter sigh over a young Paul Rudd and Alice and Lillian make comments about Cher's fashion choices is _by far_ the most normal thing Ella has ever done in her life. Is this what she missed growing up? Junkfood and movies and sleepovers where the discussion eventually pivots firmly into talking about boys?

It's…kind of nice, actually, especially when Bree darts around to hand out carefully selected pints of ice cream. After Ella is handed _Coffee Buzz Buzz Buzz_ and Alice _Milk & Cookies_, she feels her mouth tilt into a smirk, remembering the last time she'd seen Peter with a container of _Chubby Hubby_. Bree settles down with _The Tonight Dough_ and scoots Lillian's pint over with her spoon.

Lillian stares down at the pint of _Phish Food_ and then jeers, "Oh, you're _hilarious_ , Bree."

Bree grins around a spoonful of ice cream. "I thought it was appropriate. How's that going, by the way?"

Lillian's elegantly arched brows twitch upward and she appears to be considering the question with genuine thought. "Interesting," she says after a moment, digging the tip of her spoon into chocolate ice cream. "Emet is amazing, of course, but he's also several hundred years old and the most literal person I've ever met. Explaining the nuances of modern life is more difficult than I thought and I get the sense he's going a bit stir-crazy, but…I feel so stupid for saying this, but he _completes me_. Soulmates, you know?"

"Isn't that from Jerry McGuire?" Peter mumbles to himself. Then once he notices all the pointed looks aimed in his direction, he loudly says, " _What?_ I know things!"

"And it took you how long to realize you were in love with my brother?" Bree asks pointedly.

Peter waggles his finger. "I'll have you know that Tom Cruise was golden in that movie, okay. Like, how iconic is _Show me the money!_ Super iconic, that's how iconic it is."

Bree points her spoon at Peter. "My question still stands. You're definitely not helping your case, like, at all."

"I feel so attacked right now," Peter whines. "Why can't we talk about something else, like Ella trying to eat Anthony's face a few weeks ago?"

Bree drops her spoon with a clang. " _Wait, what_?"

Lillian giggles. "I knew he wasn't telling me something," she says victoriously.

Ella groans and pins Peter with a dark scowl. "Seriously?"

"Sorry not sorry!" he grins.

She kicks him in the shin, taking perverse enjoyment when he flinches, then huddles around the remainder of his ice cream. Ella huffs, rolling her eyes when Bree demands to know details. "You want to hear about what it's like to make out with your brother?"

Bree's expression twists in disgust. "No, you're right. Hard pass."

"Thank God," Ella mutters, feeling hot in the cheeks and simultaneously relieved that she won't be pressured into talking about Anthony. She wouldn't even know how to articulate it if she tried.

"What about you, Alice?"

Alice blinks in clear surprise at Lillian's question. "What about me?"

Lillian sits back. "You mean my brother still hasn't made a move?"

"Jasper?" Alice clarifies, somewhat nervous when Lillian nods. Alice drops her eyes and purses her lips. "Well, not really," she hedges awkwardly. "Nothing I would take serious, at least."

"Boo," says Bree, draping herself across the ottoman. "He's been drooling after you since, like, since high school."

Pink rises in Alice's cheeks. "I'm not interested, in any case," she says.

Ella snorts.

Alice's gimlet eyes turn toward her sharply. "What?" she demands.

Ella shrugs. "Nothing. It's just…" She pauses, trying to find the right words. "I'm not saying anything will come of it, but I am in a unique position to tell when people are attracted to each other."

"I am _not_ attracted to Jasper!" Alice denies hotly. "I don't care how smart he is, he's almost always stoned!"

And at the same time, Bree leans forward eagerly and asks, "What? How?"

"I can see soulmates," Ella says without preamble.

More than one spoon clatters onto the ottoman and Peter is sputtering and Bree is gaping and both Alice and Lillian are clearly shocked to hear that such a thing is possible. Whoops.

"You mean, you knew that Emet and I…" Lillian trails off.

Ella nods. "And Carlisle and Esme, and Sam and Emily at the diner…and Peter and Riley, too." At Peter's hacking cough, Ella smiles widely. "Oh, did I forget to mention that?"

Bree laughs in delight at Peter's overdramatic distress. "You're, like, totally buggin'! Oh, my God, do me next! Who am I destined to be with?"

And even after Ella has to explain that she doesn't know _who_ a soulmate will be until the bond between souls is formed - and once she assures Alice that Jasper's one-way attraction is by no means binding unless reciprocated, which causes Alice to blush madly - she reflects that a spontaneous night spent in the company of girls and eating way too much food isn't the worst way to while away the hours.

* * *

 **A/N: Paul Rudd is still hot, right? Like, _attainable_ hot, too. Anyway, I'm tickled pink that Peter gets roped into Girl's Night bonding, but it makes _so much sense_. More to the point, though, this chapter is a foreshadow to all the players that I'm bringing back into the story with this arc - people we're going to need and stuff! Plus, the loft is on its way to being home base, isn't it?**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	136. part 9: 7: one, two, three, a pattern

**seven**

 **one, two, three - a pattern**

* * *

It isn't as if Ella intends to go to the town meeting that Friday, but she ends up there anyway after overhearing Emily console the mother of a ten year old who wound up in the hospital after passing out earlier that day. Hearing this, Ella had looked down at her half-eaten grilled cheese-and-tomato sandwich and sighed inwardly.

First Mrs. Elizondo, and now this kid. Twice is a coincidence, right? Except this is Charmstone and normal things don't generally happen in twos. And Ella has this obligation, because she can do something and if she doesn't act and something goes wrong - well, then it's on her, isn't it? Misplaced guilt or burgeoning hero complex or whatever, it doesn't matter.

This is her town. And something weirder than usual is going on.

Which is how Ella finds herself spending an hour and a half listening to the all-human droning of the town meeting, where people mostly complain about neighbors having loud hobbies and business owners petition for extra parking spaces. Ella shifts in her seat, a little uncomfortable to realize that she doesn't know, let alone recognize, most of these people. It makes the gravity of her self-assigned responsibility all the more suffocating, because these humans are totally ignorant of the underbelly of Charmstone, or if they are in the know, then they don't even realize the half of it.

Her patience pays off, though, because toward the end of the meeting, one of the nurses from Charmstone's lone nursing home stands up to express her concerns about the air conditioners in the building, which she reasons is why one of her elderly charges had to be transferred to the hospital earlier that week.

"Severe dehydration," claims the nurse. "The elderly are very sensitive to heat, you know. Is there any way that we can get some maintenance around to look at our air conditioners sooner than the contractor assigned to our building?"

Ella bites her inner cheek. Because while dehydration and eighty year old men aren't two concepts that mesh well, it doesn't take a genius to look past this mundane reasoning and recognize this for what it is.

A pattern. Mrs. Elizondo, the ten year old kid, and an old man. That's three. That's a pattern.

Standing, Ella edges out of the meeting hall as discreetly as possible, slips into the shadows between two buildings, and allows her link to Anthony to instantly take her to him - and with a muted pop, Ella appears in the middle of Anthony's dorm room. She blinks at the sight that greets her. Anthony is in the process of pulling a shirt over his head, jeans hanging loosely from his hips; he tugs the shirt into place and raises his brows in silent askance. But she doesn't miss the smug tilt of his mouth when he catches the heat suffused in her face.

She swears to God, she's never blushed so much in her life as she has since she first kissed him. It's so annoying and completely devastating to the unflappable moue she has mastered over the years.

Ella crosses her arms over her chest, straightening her posture. "Are you busy?"

He shakes his head in the negative.

She grimaces. "Well, you're about to be."

"Am I?"

"Call it a hunch," she mutters as she reaches for his hand, tangling their fingers together and reaching for that desperation that colored her childhood - that need to just be anywhere but here. It's marginally more difficult to teleport two people at once when there isn't a glaring threat to their lives, but Ella manages it, not even stumbling when they land in the skinny ally between the meeting hall and whatever store is in the next building.

"Town meeting?" he asks with obvious surprise and she shoots him a look. He fires back a droll stare of his own. "This is literally the last place I would expect you to spontaneously take me."

"I don't know why that is," she says to him. "What else could be so urgent?"

"Didn't realize this was urgent."

She raises an incredulous brow. "You'd rather I appear in your dorm screaming bloody murder?"

"That would adequately communicate a sense of urgency, but please don't force yourself," he retorts, allowing himself to be dragged out of the alley to stand outside of the meeting hall. "Why are we here?"

Ella tilts her head to the side. "We're waiting for the humans to leave so we can attend the actual town meeting with the council."

"Yes, I gathered that," he says dryly. "Any particular reason?"

"There's….a thing happening, I think."

"A thing?"

"Yes, a thing. Specifically, a people randomly fainting thing."

Anthony looks at her sharply. "People other than Mrs. Elizondo?"

Tension unwinds in Ella's chest, because Anthony is obviously now on the same page she's on, like they're reading the same book and looking at the same picture and thinking the same thought. Drawing the same conclusion. "Three people that I know of," she says lowly, stepping back as people filter out of the meeting hall. "Doesn't that strike you as odd? People just spontaneously passing out for no clear reason? All within the same week?"

"Extremely odd," he agrees grimly.

But it turns out that he is the only one, because when she brings it up with the rest of the town council, their skepticism is clearly visible. Which strikes Ella as so fucking unbelievable, because haven't these creatures learned yet that it's better to be on the offensive than on the defensive? She can tell that Aro is at least willing to listen and that Kate is taking her hunch into consideration, but the troll and goblin representatives are outwardly scornful and Stefan, probably still sore from Ella buying the bookstore out from under him, implies that Ella has been spending too much time around paint thinner.

"We shouldn't jump to conclusions," Elisabeth Masen rationalizes.

Ella clicks her teeth together, fingers curling into fists.

Anthony steps forward. "Maybe not," he concedes diplomatically. "But we also shouldn't be so quick to dismiss, either. Right?"

Elisabeth presses her lips together with a sigh. "It just seems like a bit of a leap, that's all. There's no proof to support the claim."

And yeah, Ella can sort of see how her hunch that something strange is going down could be considered a bit of a leap - but then all things considered with everything that's happened in the last year, she is struggling to understand how it's so easy for the town council to dismiss her. Especially because Ella is keyed into this town in a way that the others simply are not.

Something is amiss. She just knows it.

"Fine," Ella spits, spinning around angrily to stomp out of the meeting hall. She stops at the doorway, pinning the council with an accusatory glare. "I don't care if you all sit on your asses and twiddle your thumbs, but I'm going to do something about this before people start dying - again."

Magic slides the doors open roughly and just behind her, she can hear Anthony talking in that grave tone of his. "I believe her," he says. "She hasn't been wrong yet, has she?"

And then he is following after her in a jog, easily keeping pace with her agitated speed and careful to give her space - maybe sensing that she doesn't want to be touched, at the moment. Ella walks quickly, taking several deep breaths through her nose, trying to tramp down that short-fuse anger and redirect it somewhere, anywhere. It's hard. Her nails draw blood from her palms and the magician's glass around her hands glow a dull red for several impossibly long minutes before the haze clears - forcibly - from her mind.

"What do you want to do?" Anthony asks once she has calmed.

They are standing in the street outside of The Magic Shop, with its darkened windows and freshly-painted exterior, just a few weeks away from opening if Peter and Liam's projections are correct. She's working on a magical version of an open/closed sign that will change automatically and light up by itself and she is planning on putting it in the wide display window. Ella stares at this little piece of the future she has carved out for herself and reigns in all of her frustration.

With a cooler head, she says to Anthony, "We're going to see what the fuck is going on and we're going to start by gathering the Scoobies."

And with that, Ella flicks her fingers out, plucking at the memorized lifelines of her friends and sending each of them a magical message written in silver fire with barely more than a concentrated thought -

 _Come to The Magic Shop - immediately._

* * *

 **A/N: Oh m _an, Ella_. Taking a stand and being the bad bitch in charge and stuff. Such an icon.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	137. part 9: 8: getting the band together

**eight**

 **getting the band back together**

* * *

The loft is jam-packed full of the people and creatures Ella has come to trust - or at the very least, count on to respond as they have done so reliably before. Whether by circumstance or creed, she has found connections in Charmstone that she is not willing to sacrifice for the sake of cow-towing to an utterly redundant chain of command. The last thing she has ever been is _servile_ , after all.

Because the loft itself isn't exactly a space that is designed to have a central location, Ella stands with her back to the window which faces the dark streets of the town proper, arms crossed as she - impatiently - waits for everyone to settle. The arrivals were staggered; Lillian and Emet trailing in long after Peter and Bree, quickly followed by Alice, with Jasper and Riley pulling up the rear.

Peter is grinning widely, dark hair flopping into lapis lazuli eyes, hands clapping together. "Look at this! The band is back together!" Peter exclaims. He peers around the kitchenette and then slumps, expression pulling into a comical pout. "What, no snacks?"

"No, no snacks," Ella says mildly. "Do I look like someone who wants to feed you?"

"So _salty_ ," Peter chides playfully, placing his hands on his hips. "There should always be snacks."

"Agree!" Bree chimes in with an approving nod. "Snacks are very important. How else are we supposed to know if this is a regular get-together or one that's more important? Donuts would make a difference, that's all I'm saying."

"Or at least peanuts," Peter says with his head inside one of the kitchen cabinets. "How do you not have _anything_ snackable in here? You heathen."

Ella takes a deep breath, glancing up at Anthony as he enters the loft, shutting the door behind him after securing the shop downstairs. At the dip of his chin, Ella flicks her hands up, drawing up new wards around the building that will keep anything discussed unable to be overheard, by magic or otherwise, and also preventing anyone from coming _into_ the building. By the time she is done making sure that some modicum of secrecy for the topic at hand is observed, the inane discussion in the room has devolved into Alice and Lillian voicing their disapproval for the levity of others.

"That's so inappropriate," Lillian says, tapping her heel on the floor as she leans back against Emet, who is looming stonily over her shoulder. The kelpie looks different than before; it seems like Lillian has made it her mission to shove him head-first into the future, because his hair is shortly cropped and he's wearing jeans that are tailored to the long lines of his legs and there isn't a ruffled collar in sight.

Bree rears back in plain shock? "What? How is it inappropriate? We're talking about snacks."

"Clearly this is a dire situation," Lillian answers with a haughty flip of blonde hair.

Alice's pale pink glossed lips turn into a delicate frown. "I don't know about _dire_ ," she trails off uncertainly. She glances at Ella, looking for some kind of validation, and Ella can only lift her shoulders in a half-hearted shrug.

Because Alice would be the first to know if people are dying - and clearly that isn't the case.

Is Ella over-reacting?

Ella's eyes flick over to Anthony, standing so silent and stoic and strong near the door, and he meets her gaze with an air of seriousness that goes a long way to calming the rising tide of irritation building between Ella's lungs. Anthony agrees with this course of action. He wouldn't do that just to appease Ella, she knows that for certain.

She's less sure about involving other people, though. Too bad she's learned to recognize when to ask for help - it was much easier and far less annoying being a loner.

"What, no urge to pierce the stratosphere?" Peter jibes, leaning over the back of one of the wooden kitchen chairs, conveniently placing him within Riley's range.

"Someone's been reading a dictionary," Riley murmurs, reaching up to tangle his fingers with Peter's.

Peter looks down, all wide-eyed and smiling. "Word of the Day calendar, actually."

"Very nice," Bree praises.

Peter wiggles his eyebrows. "It was a birthday present, you know -"

Ella exhales sharply. "Can we fucking focus?" she bites out, stiff shoulders and hard eyes and muted, cloudy red on her magician's glass.

The loft quiets down and Ella belatedly realizes that her magic had escaped her in the form of an oppressive weight, like an extra dose of gravity, that is pressing against all of her friends in a vaguely threatening way. Shit. She reels it back in with some focus, internally cursing her imperfect control.

"Sure, boss," Peter says quietly after a beat. "What's the scoop?"

"People are fainting," Ella says placidly, rubbing at the tension in her neck.

Blank faces look back at her and Ella scowls at them - because this is just like the damn town council all over again, isn't it? Like, did she have to draw a fucking picture to communicate how _weird_ it is that people are fainting in this town, or what?

"That's it?" Bree ventures hesitantly after the silence stretches awkwardly.

"What?" Ella snaps. "Yes, _that's it_. What more do you need?"

Bree blinks guilelessly, twisting a bright cyan strand of hair around her finger. "I mean, like, it's the end of summer and people never drink as much water as they say they do and, like, is a few people fainting really the end of the world-"

"Oh, for fucks sake!" Ella huffs, slapping her hand against her thigh. "Would you rather wait until the town morgue is packed with bodies again?"

Bree purses her lips and scratches her nose. "When you put it that way…"

"Has Ella ever been wrong before?" Anthony finally speaks up, jaw ticking with his own irritation. His words are just the kind of rebuttal and vouch of confidence that Ella hadn't been able to articulate herself, not without sounding _completely_ conceited. And since he's the kind of man speaks so rarely in large crowds, what he says immediately captures everyone's attention, underlining the seriousness of this gathering.

Ella hopes her admiration isn't as blatant as it feels, fluttering in her stomach and softening her expression.

Peter bobs his head a few times. "That's a good point. What do you need from us?"

Ella doesn't give into the urge to wilt in relief at having secured this assistance, but it's a near thing. She didn't used to be so _soft_ , did she? She isn't sure she likes this reliance on other people; she remembers being entirely self-sufficient and independent and she remembers that autonomy _fondly_. Of course, that had been before she'd been taken down a few pegs by hags and evil seahorses and asshole hunters - and before she realized that being alone isn't worth being lonely. So, in the end it's a fair trade.

Probably.

Once the tone has been set in the loft, it's only a matter of round-robin discussion to decide where to best place people. Anthony is swift to volunteer the wolves to run the perimeter of the town and forest to see if there are any new scents hanging around that could point them in the right direction. Hearing that, Emet offers his aid to Anthony, as well as striking up the possibility of examining the Charmstone water sources for any tampering. Lillian easily decides that her best bet to turn up information is to pay a visit to the Charmstone Police Department in a bid to talk to old classmates who had wound up in the police force.

And at hearing that, Jasper nods to himself and pulls out the sleek laptop tucked into a hemp messenger bag. "Preemptive strike," he says, sounding more sober and looking more present than ever before. "I like it. I'll see what I can turn up from hospital files, yeah?"

Ella had been thinking the same thing, so she turns to Alice with her brows raised. "That leaves you and me. We'll go talk to the people in the hospital, see if they saw anything before they fainted."

Alice draws her eyes away from Jasper, gimlet eyes wide in obvious surprise, and agrees with a silent tilt of her head. If it were any other time, Ella would be the first to tease her sister about realizing Jasper's hidden assets, but as it is, they all have jobs to do. Ella snags Alice by the wrist, briskly tells everyone to meet back at the loft in two hours, if not sooner, and then teleports them away with a _pop_.

It's possible that Ella could have spared a moment to warn Alice about the sudden teleportation, because when they appear in front of the hospital, Alice looks a little green around the gills, grimacing while she squeezes her eyes shut. "Oh, that's awful," Alice complains delicately.

Ella frowns. The displacement of teleportation is, by now, sort of old hat for her; aside from the draw on her magic, which doesn't last terribly long, Ella has moved beyond the world-tilting dizziness and actually kind of enjoys those few seconds of fathomless weightlessness, actually. Still, Anthony hasn't reacted the same way as Alice, but when Ella points that out, all she earns is a scornful roll of the eyes.

"I'm not a werewolf, am I?" Alice asks rhetorically.

"I literally don't know what that has to do with this."

"I'm a _banshee_."

"And this is relevant because?"

Alice sniffs, crossing her arms with her lips pulled together. "Because it is."

Ella snorts. "Oh, my God, you complete _princess_. You just don't like the rush and you're trying to pass it off as your creature having delicate sensibilities."

Alice narrows her eyes. "Are we going to do this or not?"

Ella tucks her hands into the pocket of her leather jacket. "We're going. Stay close," she says casually over her shoulder as she strides through the entrance of the hospital. It's rounding on ten at night and hospital visiting hours are long over, but this works to their advantage. It wasn't too long ago that Ella was sneaking into another hospital, after all, and Charmstone General has way less security than hospitals in the city. Between Alice's general familiarity with the hospital and Ella's ability to keep them magically hidden from sight, it's no trouble at all for them to track down the room numbers of the three fainting victims.

Martha Elizondo is their first stop. The woman doesn't look any worse for the wear and she's sleeping with relative ease. Ella and Alice stop at the foot of the hospital bed and exchange a heavy glance.

"Now what?" Alice asks.

"I didn't think this far ahead," Ella admits.

Alice's face takes on the same pinched expression as Carlisle's when he's particularly exasperated. "Well, don't you have a spell?"

Ella rolls her eyes. "Oh, right, a mind reading spell. Of course, how silly of me to forget about a _mind reading spell_."

"Excuse me, but wasn't it you who _accidentally_ time traveled?" Alice reminds her pointedly.

"Okay, yes, but this is different," Ella says after a stilted moment.

Alice sighs.

Ella glares at her, gesturing at the banshee's petite frame accusingly. "Well, what about you?"

"What about me?" Alice wonders in clear surprise.

"Don't you have, like, voices in your head, or something?"

" _Whispers_ ," Alice corrects icily. "And they're silent right now."

Heaving her shoulders in a put-out sigh, Ella turns back to stare at the slumbering Mrs. Elizondo for a long, pensive moment. It would probably scare the poor woman to just, like, wake her up and demand answers, right? Right. Ella pivots sharply and leaves the room. "Let's try our luck with the kid," she says to Alice.

"Wouldn't the kid be sleeping by now?"

"Sleeping in a hospital, probably in a room that has a television and no parental supervision? I don't think so," she retorts. And at Alice's blank expression, Ella wrinkles her nose. "You were like the most straight-laced kid ever, weren't you?"

"I'm not dignifying that with an answer."

Ella scoffs.

However, she is right, in the end. The second fainting victim, the ten year old kid, is very much awake and watching re-runs of _Daria_ when they happen upon her room. She's a cheery little redhead who isn't at all bothered by random visitors to her hospital room in what is passably the middle of the night. Ella reflects that she had never been so naïve; her first reaction in that situation would have been decidedly more defensive. But Tanya's childlike innocence works to their advantage and Alice, being the more approachable of the two, engages the kid in conversation while Ella listens in -

But then there's a - a _ripple_ \- in the wards. A plainly evident disturbance _Ella's_ meticulously-placed, supremely over-powered wards around the entire town. Someone or something has just entered Charmstone - she was _right_ -

"Ella?"

She looks down at Alice's hand on her arm, then blinks. "Sorry?"

Alice searches her gaze for a second. "You totally just spaced out."

Deliberately, Ella shifts so that Tanya cannot see her face. "Something just happened with the wards," she says softly.

Alice inhales, a quiet gasp. "Then you didn't hear what Tanya said?"

Ella shakes her head.

Alice's grip tightens ever so slightly, the soft opal of her nail polish glinting in the harsh florescent lighting. "She said she saw a great, white deer with glowing golden eyes only a few minutes before she fainted. She said the deer touched her with its antlers and that she felt light as a feather. She doesn't even remember anything after that, but she said that her mom told her she was playing one minute, and down the next. Sound familiar?"

"Possibly very familiar," Ella replies, thinking of the way Mrs. Elizondo didn't seem, like, all in her head right before she fainted. Ella feels a little baffled by this news. "Are you saying that our culprit is Bambi?"

"Of course not," Alice tsks. "She's a child and has no idea what's going on, let along what the difference between males and females of the same species are."

" _What_ are you talking about?"

Alice looks at her as if she's being particularly slow. "We're not looking for a _deer_. We're looking for a _stag_."

 _And when we find the stag, we'll find whoever just crossed my wards_ , Ella adds silently with the unerring sense that the stag is somehow connected to this new development.

* * *

 **A/N: This is one of those times where having a working knowledge of symbolism makes everything just so much fun. Like, why a raven familiar for Ella? Why that tattoo for Alec? I have _reasons_ and they are _great reasons_. Who knows about the symbolism of white stags? It goes back _ages_ and is in almost every culture, Eastern and Western alike. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it. (I cannot, however, take the hiccups that have been plaguing me all day, because _why_ )**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	138. part 9: 9: not a unicorn

**nine**

 **not a unicorn**

* * *

Nothing.

Not a single damn thing.

Ella stares at the ward boundary at the town border, one of her painstakingly tree-carved sigils visible from where she stands, and presses her lips together. She's flummoxed. This is where she'd felt the ward ripple and there is _nothing_ \- except for the faintest trace of magic that dissipates too quickly to get a handle on. It's just Ella and the midnight forest and her mounting vexation.

What the _hell_ is going on?

Ella pops back to the hospital, right by where Alice is waiting patiently on a bench in some weird, probably therapeutic garden. Alice flinches minutely at her arrival, then turns expectant gimlet eyes up to follow as Ella paces a tight, agitated circle.

"Anything?" Alice ventures.

Ella scowls darkly and remains silent. Whatever this is with the wards is tingling all sorts of warning bells - and yet, Ella's vigilance is of her own making, because there certainly isn't anything _dark_ that she's sensing. Just something unknown. She's tired of the unknown.

Alice sighs. "I'll take that as a no, then." She stands, brushing off her white jeans and fixing the fluff of her hair, tapping at the screen of her phone to pull up a conversation thread. "Lillian says that the police don't know of anything unusual."

"Ignorant as usual," Ella mutters scornfully.

"And Emet also didn't seem to find anything unusual with the water, or whatever, so that's a bust to," Alice reports mildly, unmoved by Ella's sudden downtrodden mood. Probably used to it by now, really. "And since you didn't find anything just now, then we need to keep going with this process of elimination thing. Right? We do have something of a lead from Tanya and I've got a feeling that she was on the right track."

"Maybe," Ella says shortly with a shake of her head. "But that's just one little girl saying that she saw something and, honestly, her description was kind of shitty, so we're still just guessing."

Alice stares, seemingly struck by a thought. "Wow," she says in muted surprise.

"What?"

"Nothing. I just never thought that we would end up here. I mean, a year ago you were the weird, moody artist my father adopted…and now you're, I don't know, more collected and rational. And I can actually stand being around you."

Ella's boot skids across concrete as she tilts her head at Alice. Finally, she says, "I'm going to look beyond all the passive bitchiness there and take that as a compliment."

"It _was_ intended as one."

"Very reassuring."

Alice rolls her eyes dismissively. "Whatever. What's the plan now?"

Ella's lips stretch into a smile that isn't very nice at all and she closes her hand around Alice's wrist. "Try not to throw up," she says right before she teleports them back into the loft, where a bright-screened laptop is open on the ottoman and Jasper is nowhere to be found, although the bathroom door is closed, and by tracing his lifeline, Riley is down in the shop waiting for everyone to return.

Alice stumbles upon their arrival, looking green again as she mutters, "Never mind, I take it _all_ back."

Unfortunately, Ella doesn't have time to goad Alice - which was proving to be a _very_ effective means of distracting herself from the veritable failure of the night - because feet thunder up the stairs and the door to the loft bursts open. Peter is almost vibrating in his excitement when he gleefully announces, "Bree saw a _thing!_ "

Immediately, all of Ella's attention is directed at the three werewolves returning to the loft. She raises her brows at Bree, eyes flicking to Anthony's pensive countenance for a brief moment, and then back. "Well? What did you see?"

"A thing," Peter repeats.

"A _butt_ of a thing," Bree corrects happily. "Yet a thing all the same."

Ella's interest deflates a bit. "Tony?"

Anthony dips his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Didn't see it myself, but there was something out there with us. No scent, though."

No scent? What kind of thing doesn't have a scent?

"I have a theory," Peter pipes up. He holds his hands up, fingers splayed and eyes wide and round. "Now, just go with me for a minute, okay? Bree saw a butt of a thing and the butt was, like, _white_ okay? Like, super glowy magic white. And I'm not saying it's _unicorns_ , okay. But come on, it doesn't have a scent and it disappears randomly and it doesn't seem to be, like, actually hurting anyone. So it's definitely a unicorn, right? Unicorns are things that are real and as someone who isn't a brony, I can totally say that without irony."

"Oh, please," Alice snipes. "It isn't a unicorn."

"How do you know?" Peter challenges. "It could be a unicorn, you don't know."

"It isn't a unicorn because it's a white stag," Alice tells him confidently. "One of the victims, a girl at the hospital, said she saw a white deer with antlers and golden eyes. That's a stag, not a unicorn, and I can prove it. Bree, what kind of _tail_ did you see?"

"Oh," Bree breathes in realization. She scratches her chin thoughtfully. "Now that I think about it…"

"There, see?"

"Damnit," Peter mutters.

Anthony circles close to Ella, his bicep brushing against the top of her shoulder as he studies her closely. "Something happened," he states matter-of-factly.

Ella turns around, facing the window as her expression crumbles into outright frustration. When she digs her nails into her palms, Anthony is quick to straighten out her fingers, listening as she tells him haltingly about her little side-trip to the Charmstone border only to find exactly nothing. As she finishes, he expels a low breath of air, dipping his head to catch her gaze. "We're going to catch whatever it is," he tells her. "We have a solid lead, now, between that kid and Bree."

And even though Ella knows he's right - because they're definitely in a better position than they were two hours ago - she can't help but feel irritated _at herself_. Because if she'd just been faster, if she'd teleported the instant she felt the wards ripple instead of letting herself be waylaid by Alice's epiphany, then maybe actual progress might have been made. Having a better grasp, a confirmation, on what they're working with doesn't change the fact that there is a town of a few thousand people depending on them - on _Ella_ \- to protect them.

Anthony presses a tender kiss to the furrow of her brow, knowing without being told that Ella's mood will be resolved on its own time. She hopes he can tell by the way she leans into his touch that his support means _everything_ , even if she can't bring herself to articulate it. Anthony understands; he knows.

And he's correct in his estimation of their progress.

They've done everything right, covered all of their bases. When Jasper emerges from the bathroom - with a billow of greyish smoke and a bit glassy eyed, but more or less not as high as he usually is - he is eager to impart the knowledge he has gleaned from hacking hospital records. According to the patient charts, all three incidences share off-the-chart elevated levels of oxytocin, serotonin, dopamine in the blood work, which means _nothing_ to Ella, but Jasper is clearly intrigued by this. He's had the time to do some research while everyone was away and has come to the conclusion that the sudden acceleration of these chemicals caused such an endorphin rush that the only thing the body could do, aside from become near-delirious, was to lose consciousness to regulate the levels back to something closer to normal.

Peter is the first to get a grasp on what Jasper is saying. "Are you saying that they fainted from _happiness_?"

"Basically, yeah."

"And we're _sure_ this isn't a unicorn?" Peter checks.

"It's a white stag," Alice says flatly.

Bree nods, puffing her cheeks out as she sighs. "Yep. A white stag that makes people super happy. Apparently."

"Why is this town so weird?" Peter complains.

Ella can only silently agree, because this situation is rapidly going beyond the pale. It's one thing for something nefarious to be haunting the town, because Ella knows how to _deal_ with that - sledgehammer force to get rid of the threat before it can get rid of you. But something that's ghosting around making people so happy that it's literally overwhelming? That isn't the usual tone that these threats tend to strike.

How is Ella supposed to protect people from _happiness_?

Unless this is a smoke-and-mirrors type of situation and we need to be looking for the man behind the curtain, she decides bleakly.

And because of the likelihood of that _much more realistic_ scenario being the one that's really happening, Ella sends Raven out to patrol the skies on the off-chance that her familiar will be able to see something that she cannot.

* * *

 **A/N: Oh yeah, you can learn all kinds of stuff from blood work and since it's basic hospital protocol to do intake blood work when someone is admitted for treatment...Or is that just in America? Whatever. You can also experience some really weird side effects from either taking or producing too much oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin, because it turns out too much of the "feel-good" hormones really _can_ be a bad thing for your brain, which just wants be balanced, okay? Of course, in the real world, I doubt extremely elevated levels of any of these neurochecmicals would actually cause anyone to pass out, hence the inclusion of endorphins and, you know, _magic_. Which probably does things to regular non-potential humans that isn't good for their general health. Possibly. Just accept my hand-wavy science magic, which is _at least_ 80% real. At least. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	139. part 9: 10: the white stag

**ten**

 **the white stag**

* * *

Two days have passed - and _twice more_ Ella has felt the wards ripple, but each time she is not fast enough, appearing at different places along with town border just in time to see a white wisp of magic fade into nothing.

She doesn't like the failure. Not at all.

Anthony has instigated patrol shifts along the Charmstone town lines, making it mandatory for the patrols to be done in pairs and with at least one werewolf each time - because the wolves could communicate through the pack bond, send a sense of urgency if something is found on patrols.

The wolves haven't seen anything, Ella is not fast enough, and continuing on this high level of vigilance is more draining than she likes. For all of them, really. Like, right now as she goes down to the shop, she sees the back of Peter's head bent over a collection of books he's lugged out on top of the bookshelves; she's pretty sure he hasn't slept for at least a day, so caught up in research about white stags. Alice and Riley have been helping, too, but they approach the problem in way that is decidedly more reasonable.

Not that Ella can blame Peter for his determination. She's in the same boat - hell, she's holding the oar.

And yet, now really isn't the time. After a night of restless sleep, knowing that Anthony and Emet have taken the longest patrol shift over the midnight and early morning hours, Ella has risen on what might generously be called the wrong side of the bed. She won't say it out loud to anyone _except_ Tony, of course, but the pit of worry gnawing at her stomach just knowing that he was out there and that it made more sense for the heavy hitters to be separated - well, she doesn't like that either. That dependency to know about his safety in order for her mind _to still_. It's new. She doesn't know how he dealt with it for _three_ years. Ella would accuse him of being superhuman, but then, he _is_ a werewolf and it's something of a moot point.

So when Ella saunters toward Peter, her tone is maybe a bit more caustic than it really needs to be. "Are you seriously still researching?"

"Uh _, yeah_ ," he says in a tone that implies _Ella_ is being ridiculous. "I mean, how are you not completely enthused? Look at this - it says here in this book - translated from Mandarin, I think - that white stags are omens of good tidings and big changes. And - _and_ \- white stags have an legendary ability to, like, do a _thing_ to protect people who they have chosen. How is that not totally cool?"

Ella hums, not impressed and not exactly curious, either. "What kind of _thing_ can they do?"

Peter scratches his ear. "Ah, well, that part isn't really clear," he admits sheepishly. "But based on people being so damn blissful they get overwhelmed, I'll take a wild guess and say it has something to do with emotions. That's freaking awesome, right? Right?"

She stares at him impassively.

"Oh, _come on_ ," he says expressively, throwing his hands in the air. "It _is_ cool and you know it. Why won't you admit it?"

"I don't know, Peter, maybe because people are in the hospital and we can't seem to catch the white stag's puppet master," she points out with a chilly bite.

He deflates. "Okay, fair point."

Ella rolls her eyes, ready to make Peter switch gears from _research_ to _patrol_ -

And then she feels it. The ripple in the ward like a drop of water in a lake, reaching out in echoes all over the town and she knows, immediately, that this time is _different_. This time, the puppet master followed the white stag into the town - because the puppet master is done gather information or whatever _the hell_? Doesn't matter. She can't waste time _wondering_. She needs

"It's time," she says to Peter, hushed and hasty. She doesn't wait for him to finish standing - and knocking all of the open books off the shelf and onto the floor in the process - before she is spinning on her heel - popping out of the shop and into the woods outside of the town.

Like most of the forest, with very few exception, Ella is somewhat familiar with the area. The thicket of trees and trodden-down grass and the faint susurration of water some distance away all tell her that she's arrived somewhere between Beacon Lake and the town border - closer to the border than the lake, however. The white stag might be able to disappear in the blink of an eye, but the puppet master isn't as fast.

She can use that to her advantage.

It crosses her mind for maybe half a second that she should wait for back-up, or that she should have _at least_ brought Peter along. She pushes the errant thought away. This is, like, _personal_ now - someone coming into her town, playing with her through some flimsy magic trick. The low simmering irritation flares wildly, bubbling the magic beneath her skin, and it makes it that much easier to pay very little mind to the sudden tight-rope tension of her own lifeline as Anthony learns that Ella has, once again, gone of half-cocked. She can feel the blanket of his irritation like a wasp in the back of her mind and she knows - absolutely and without any doubt - that Anthony is coming for her.

She isn't going to wait for him, though.

She can't.

Not when she can also sense a swell of magic building between the trees. The magic is foreign and quite unlike any other magic she's ever encountered - almost thick and syrupy-sweet, like honey. _Untainted_ is the word that comes to mind. Is there such a thing as pure magic? Has Ella been viewing this entire situation _wrong_? Looking for evil where there is only goodness?

But if the puppet master is good, then what's with all the hiding? Why not just enter the town with complete transparency?

Ella keeps tight hold of that suspicion as she ventures between the trees, her eyes roving side to side as she watches for the stag or for the origin of that strange magic. In the end, it comes from nowhere - one moment, it is just Ella and the forest, and the next, there is a streaking arc of white blurring into a form right in front of her eyes. With its shoulders as tall as she is, four great hooves stamped in shining white light, and a crown of gleaming golden antlers on its head, the white stag suddenly standing before Ella is an amazing sight. If it weren't for the inherent urgency of the situation or the glow of the stag's too-intelligent eyes, Ella would have wanted nothing more than to commit this sight to a sketchbook. As it is, the graceful animal is staring at her - through her, almost, with a dip of its neck to peer at her more closely.

She doesn't feel any of the alleged happiness that the victims felt when a single antler presses against the center of her forehead. No euphoria, no mind-bending happiness, no intense need to let all her troubles fall away. Nothing except for a gentle male voice - the stag's voice - slipping like silk through her mind.

 _Come_ , it says, turning to trod slowly through the woods, leaving a trail of white mist after it.

Ella stares after it, trying to figure out why she isn't affected, and then lifts her feet to follow. Her bond to Raven is growing shorter as her familiar flies overhead, staying above the canopies to keep a watchful eye. Ella is not alone as she follows the stag and she senses that the stag is aware of this, which is just another very strange thing she doesn't have time to think about.

The closer the stag leads her to the source of the strange magic, the more Ella allows her magic to move through Charmstone's ley lines, gathering up extra power for herself in case it's needed. And not too long later, just a quarter of a mile from the town border, the stag cuts through a tiny clearing where someone - a man - is standing. He is facing away from Ella, but he doesn't appear surprised when the stag nuzzles against him in greeting, reaching up to stoke the stag between the antlers.

In fact, the only one shocked is Ella when the stag begins to merge into the man's skin, the tangible white form fading into nothing and disappearing all together. _That's new_ , she thinks dumbly. Just _what_ is he, this puppet master of the white stag?

Her eyes narrow as the man turns around, a weariness in his expression as they study each other. He's Asian, with honey-hued skin and inky hair, an a cleanly aquiline face with downcast eyes, and taller than Ella by maybe five inches.

"Tired of playing hide and seek?" Ella asks straightaway rather than waste time on introductions that might not be necessary. The man doesn't answer, of course, but the sense of his magic grows, building in a dull white glow in his palms. "Put away the magic and explain what the fuck you're doing in my town," she orders sternly, silvery magic zinging between her fingertips.

The man shakes his head, messy hair ruffling in the breeze, and he finally speaks. "I will not leave myself defenseless against you. The moment I am not armed, you will cast magic at me."

His accent is kind of strange, an interesting slip against syllables that she hasn't ever heard before. His caution is even more odd; if it were Ella in his place, she would have already been blasting away in defensiveness. She breathes in and out for a few moments, then says, "I won't cast magic at you."

"I am not blind or stupid," he returns derisively. "You are a magician and rumor has it that you're quite a vicious one, too. No, I will not snuff my magic unless you also agree to do the same."

Ella scoffs. "Why would I do that?"

"I am no threat to you."

She glares heatedly. "Maybe not - for whatever reason, your stag doesn't mess with me, but it has been messing with people in my town. And I don't tolerate that kind of bullshit. So put away the magic, or I'll do it for you."

"If you think you're fast enough," he challenges coolly, eyes still downturned.

Ella snorts - loudly.

The man's head snaps up and he glares at her with eyes the palest shade of gold she's ever seen - almost like sunlight through amber glass - which are startling to see in contrast to his complexion. Those eyes aren't natural, even for supernatural creatures.

Ella starts, head tilting to the side as one of his previous comments ping somewhere in the back of her head. "Wait. You know what I am?"

The man - or boy, because he doesn't look much older than she is - frowns deeply at her. "Of course I know what you are."

"How?" Ella demands, her magic shivering threatening through the clearing.

His eyes widen in alarm and he raises his hands, open-palmed as the white of his magic recedes in the most obvious sign of surrender she has ever seen. "We are the same," he says. "You and I are very much alike."

She studies his eyes again, the tension collapsing from her spine and the strained lines of her fingers as she catches the flecked gold in his eyes. A voice from long ago rasps through her mind, the hag droning on and on as Ella lay helpless on that altar -

 _"Did you know that you can tell a caster's magic simply by their eyes, hmm? Merlin, Morgana, and Mordred all were naturally inclined to certain magics. Mordred, of course, was a dark magician of the black arts and he had eyes like the moonless night. Merlin was notorious for his light magic and was golden-eyed and while many believe that Merlin was the most powerful magician of all time, even his enemy Mordred, they are all wrong. All of them were so blind to the true power of neutrality - all except for Morgana le Fay, with eyes like starlight, and a caster of both light and dark magic."_

Ella stares at this stranger, this puppet master, pensively - between his eyes and the fucking _lightness_ of his magic, it's more than obvious what he is. But that doesn't stop Ella from letting her magician's vision flicker to the forefront so she can peer at his lifeline, a stunning whitegold cord brighter than any she's seen before, except for her own silver lifeline.

"It's like looking in a mirror," she mutters.

"Almost," he says carefully. "We are not quite the same."

"I know."

"I am Alec, descendant of Merlin," he says with a shallow bow of his head.

Reeling and a bit dumbfounded at the idea that another _magician_ was in the town, let alone that another magician was the cause for all that anxiety, she can only introduce herself stiltedly, her magic cooling in her veins. "Ella, descendant of Morgan le Fay."

And Ella very pointedly does not add that, thought her mother, she is also a descendant of Merlin - though she does wonder how she is related to Alec. And - _God_ \- is she staring at a blood relative for the first time in her life? The thought makes her dizzy.

She shakes her head slightly, eying him warily. "What are you doing here?"

Alec grimaces. "I am on the run from The Order-"

Incredulity flows through Ella, almost scalding in it's intensity. "And you thought _Charmstone_ would be a nice place to hide? You thought it was okay to lead The Order right to our door?"

Alec rears back, clearly surprised by the sudden appearance of her vitriolic mood. "That was not my intention."

"Yeah? Then what was your intention?"

For a moment, it looks like he isn't going to say anything, and family or not, Ella is fully prepared to do what needs to be done - either by getting answers or kicking Alec out of Charmstone for good. But then he opens his mouth and says, "I would not have found this town alone, but I came across someone who knew of a magician and I thought - truly - that this is my best chance at surviving," he says, hesitating a glance over his shoulder. To someone who is _not_ Ella, he says, "Perhaps it is best if you come out now."

The breath leaves Ella in a whoosh, pushed out of her lungs by the sheer volume of her shock, along with every ounce of confusion and mounting anger building up inside. Because Alec did not come alone.

He came with Jane.

* * *

 **A/N: Like, fuck the hag, but she knew what she was talking about.**

 **Anyway, since I probably won't explain it in-story, here's how it goes: Ella created a bracelet for Jane that lets Jane get past all the human-deterrent wards hiding Charmstone from people not in the know and that means that Jane's bracelet also effectively acts like an extension of Ella's magic, so she can't sense it - or Jane - unless she's looking for it, which explains why Ella didn't notice Jane until Jane was brought to her attention. That said, Alec is foreign magic and magic that Ella's never dealt with before, so she _did_ feel Akira entering the wards and could also tell - just by magical volume - when Alec himself went through officially. It's like the difference between pinching yourself and someone else pinching you - more noticeable when someone else does it, right?**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	140. part 9: 11: whiplash

**eleven**

 **whiplash**

* * *

"Jane?"

"Ella, it's so great to see you - I - I can't believe it, but you look the same…"

Jane's rosebud lips spread into a tremulous smile as her voice wavers, her blue eyes glassy with restrained emotion, and Ella is struck silent. It's completely _stupid_ , but Ella is thrown by how different Jane is since that night in the hospital. Still delicately beautiful like a China doll, but her pale blonde hair is no longer limp and at least six inches shorter than before; there is a healthy weight to her willowy frame, no longer the stress-stretched skin and bones; and maybe most notably, there is a spark of some vitality seeping through Jane's lifeline, reflected in that glimmer in her eye.

Jane survived - became a survivor. Maybe not in the same way as Ella, who chewed on brass tacks and made a new shape for herself out of the old glass shards that had cut her so deeply and turned herself into a thing forged in fire. But Jane _did_ survive and learned to thrive and if it took her three years to come look for Ella - well, then Ella can only think that she assumed it would take _longer_.

But it didn't take longer, did it? Ella's eyes drift to Alec and she feels resentment spring a leak between her ribs. Had he taken advantage of Jane somehow? Tricked Jane into leading him to Charmstone? If so, it would be an offense that Ella considers unforgivable - Jane has been through enough as it is to not get her heart broken by some two-bit con artist intent on bringing disaster on them all.

Without hesitation - without really thinking about it - Ella _pops_ to stand between Jane and Alec and swings her hand up, magician's glass flashing pearly silver as she flings Alec against the trunk of a tree, wrapping her magic around his body to anchor him there. Unable to move, Alec gags for a moment under the pressure before his magic surges from his hands, melting his eyes into shining, molten gold.

Behind her, Jane shrieks in vivid alarm, but that is all the attention Ella pays to her.

Alec's magic pushes back against hers, almost burning in how _light_ it is, and it is strong enough that Ella staggers back a step. Her eyes widen; like her, Alec isn't accessing _all_ of his magic, and given that this is her first time dealing with another magician, Ella is surprised by the sheer volume that she can sense hidden in Alec's natural magical pathways. But - and there always is a but - Alec does not have the advantages that Ella does. Her strength has always been bracketed by anger and, more importantly, by the odd nature of _her_ pathways, which have been repeatedly bound and unbound and which, consequentially, allow her to jigsaw into the Charmstone ley lines. Her reserve is larger than his because of all the _fucking_ interference she's suffered through.

Ella's magic is stronger - and with a grit of her teeth, her magic lashes forward, scattering Alec's magic away - white glittering beneath a silver wave - like a dandelion caught in the wind. The golden glow of his eyes flickers valiantly, then fades away, and he looks at her with open fear -

Good.

"What did you do to her?" Ella spits the demand out with a threatening step forward, fingers twitching to press Alec deeper into the wood at his back. "Bewitched her to trick her mind so you could weasel your way into the town? A potion, maybe? Or were you too afraid to taint that white magic of yours, so you played on her _trust_ instead -"

"Ella! God, Ella, stop!" Jane cries in distress as Alec chokes on air.

Ella's eyes cut to the side, a twist in her features as her gaze falls on the ivory bracelet dangling from Jane's wrist. "Did he hurt you?" she asks sharply.

"N-no! No, the very opposite, I promise!"

Jane sounds so earnest that Ella is inclined to believe her - but even still, it does very little to cool Ella's protective ire. Ella isn't so easy to trust perfect strangers and she can't fathom what Alec has done to earn Jane's loyalty, especially when all _she's_ seen from Alec is deception.

She twists her head back to stare at Alec's reddening face with hard eyes, magic still swirling and pressurized between them, her own having effectively beat his down -

Ella isn't quite sure what she would have done if Anthony hadn't arrived at that moment, taking a quick inventory of the volatile situation keenly, and - accurately - judging Ella as the most unpredictable player. He comes up behind her, and between the awareness she has of him and his honest intent to deescalate the situation, she allows him to persuade her to _at least_ allow Alec to breathe. Ella does so with some reluctance, peeling back her magic just enough that Alec can slump onto the ground, steadied by the way Anthony cups her shoulders.

Alec coughs, muttering a few oaths in Japanese as he breathes greedily. Standing to the side, Jane looks between them all uncertainly and Ella feels a flash of guilt for her easy violence - not because she _regrets_ it, but because Jane didn't need to see that.

Sensing that Ella has eased away from a murderous, self-righteous rage, Anthony steps around her, unsurprisingly finding some difficulty in moving the nearer he gets to Alec. He throws her an expectant look and Ella grudgingly pulls all of her magic back, watching as Alec shudders from the withdrawal with an impassive expression.

She crosses her arms over her chest, jutting her hip out. "I had things under control," she says to Anthony.

"Clearly," he says dryly, pacing a loose circle around Alec, who has now turned pale eyes up to Anthony, a flicker of recognition in his gaze. Anthony pays him no mind, directing a solemn frown to Ella. "What's all this about, then?"

She jerks her chin to Alec. "Found the puppet master," she says, before glancing at a still-shaken Jane. "Turns out he's a pretty mediocre kidnapper, too."

"He didn't kidnap me!" Jane says - and at the same time -

"You jump too quickly to conclusions," Alec accuses, not quite as boldly as before.

Ella's lip curls. "And you're responsible for putting defenseless humans in the hospital with your little party trick. But none of us are perfect."

Anthony straightens at hearing this, claws slipping from the tips of his fingers, head cocked to the side. Ella has no doubt that his positioning is entirely intentional, as he's placed himself close to Alec and maintains a posture that shifts all of his weight onto the balls of his feet. But he stays his hand, locking his aggression up tight, because he is smarter than Ella - he wants proof, an explanation, a _reason_. Something definitive. His attention is definitely caught, though.

Alec sighs, aggrieved and frustrated, fisting his dark hair in hand. "It wasn't like that!"

"Then what was it like?" Ella demands, making a sweeping gesture toward Jane. "Because she can come and go whenever she likes - as I'm sure you already figured out, I made that possible with that bracelet. And you, being magical, are allowed inside these wards whenever you want, too. So what was the point of sending that stag around to prey on the humans of this town?"

"It wasn't about getting in the town!" Alec exclaims. "It was about making sure the town was safe! All Akira was doing was assessing the citizens - learning how the town operates and if there's been any trouble with The Order - and they will all recover just fine, it's a minor side effect that passes with time!"

Ella rears back, mouth slackening, mind racing as she tries to reconcile this new information. She looks to Anthony, raising her brows, and his claws recede. "He's telling the truth," he declares softly.

Feeling a bit wrong-footed, Ella watches silently as Jane rushes to Alec's side, helping him stand and tossing Ella round-eyed stares every once in a while. Anthony moves to stand at Ella's side, catching her hand in his briefly. "Where's the stag?" he asks.

" _In_ him, or something," Ella mutters. "It's some kind of magical tattoo, I guess."

His eyes trace over the side of her face. "You okay?"

"That remains to be seen," she says. Because the violent impulses, the aggression, is too easy to give in to now - after what she'd done to Duncan, to the hunters, to the each uisge, and the hag, it's like each time Ella uses her magic for darkness, it gets that much harder to pull back.

Alec faces her wearily, Jane tucked against his side, and says, "I am formally requesting sanctuary in Charmstone, with the promise that I will leave the moment it seems The Order has traced my location."

Ella and Anthony exchange a weighted glance. After a beat, Anthony nods. "I'll talk to the town council on your behalf," he says to Alec. "Welcome, for now."

"And don't expect an apology from me," Ella adds spitefully, punctuated by Anthony's long-suffering sigh. Ella locks her jaw and says, "It was super fucked up to play espionage with your little spirit animal, especially since you did it in _my_ town."

Alec holds her gaze proudly for a moment before his eyes drop. "It won't happen again."

Ella laughs shortly, harsh sound. "You're damn right it won't happen again."

Alec flinches at the implication.

And Ella is maybe a bit more satisfied by that than she should be.

* * *

 **A/N: Honestly, I had to think for _a while_ about how best to write this reunion and I hope that staying true to Ella's quick-trigger temper was a good, natural way to depict how _she_ would handle such a sudden turn of events. She's not the hug-first, ask questions later type, is she? And, in keeping with the misplaced guilt she feels for Jane's trauma, I thought she would be especially protective of Jane. It all made sense in my head - hope the same goes for you.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	141. part 9: 12: a little luck

**twelve**

 **a little luck**

* * *

When it's all settled and her loft has been transformed into impromptu lodgings while other arrangements are made and day has fallen into night - when it's all said and done, it's more than a little awkward. For one, Anthony can't act as a buffer if he's also speaking on behalf of Alec to use the town council's discretionary fund, which exists for sanctuary and emergency-type situations, to get Alec housed in the lonesome, teeny bed and breakfast in town. Which means that _Ella_ is left to play host by herself because everyone else is _busy_.

Suspiciously, randomly busy.

Ella would call foul, but some kind of rationale kicks in and she bites her tongue. This isn't really a situation that calls for Bree or Peter's particular brand of _friendliness_ , and she can't imagine Alice would want to be anywhere near at this point. Instead, she gives the grand tour of her place, pointedly ignoring the judgey look on Alec's face once he realizes that she plans to make profit off her magic. She hastens through the shop with an explicit direction to not go anywhere near the basement and leads Jane and Alec up to the loft, where she takes great pleasure in conjuring two beds in the cramped space that will eventually become her living room. If she's showing off a little, it's only because she intends to hammer it into Alec's skull that she has _power_ and she is very much willing to use it.

Ella is glad to see his pinched expression disappear behind the bathroom door as he goes to take a shower that, by all indications, is months in coming. Of course, she only knows this because Anthony had persuaded Alec to talk _a bit_ more about why he needs sanctuary in the first place - and a very small part of her that isn't still harboring anger over the smoke and mirror games Alec played with the stag manages to feel a shred of sympathy for Alec's plight. It can't be easy running from The Order for _six months_. It actually says something about Alec that he's lasted this long without outside help.

She's grudgingly impressed.

"So, how did you end up with him if he didn't kidnap you?" Ella asks point-blank once the sound of water hitting tile can be heard from the bathroom. She doesn't bother dropping her voice, because this is _her_ loft, but she does take care to make her tone at least somewhat affable.

Jane is sitting on the side of one of the conjured beds, running her hand over the fabric of the spare pajamas Ella has managed to scrounge up. She smiles a bit wistfully when she answers. "Just a little luck, that's all," she says. "I've been…putting off coming to visit you for a while now and when I met Alec, it seemed like a good opportunity, especially since he's magic, too. Like you."

Ella leans her hip against the kitchen table. Jane _likes_ Alec, that much is obvious. Jane even trusts him, to some extent, which she finds only moderately surprising. After three years and, as far as Ella knows, no additional traumas, it made sense that Jane is able to place her trust in other people, seemingly with such ease. Ella can't say the same, of course, but then she and Jane are not cut from the same cloth.

At Ella's extended silence, Jane lifts her head to look at Ella with a steady directness that is almost disarming. Almost. More disarming is the shy smile that Jane offers, accompanied by a gentle laugh. "You haven't changed a bit."

Ella raises a brow, trying to wrap her head around _that_. Because Ella feels like an entirely different person than she was a year ago - and definitely since she and Jane shared a room in that hellhouse.

Seeing her skepticism, Jane leans forward on the edge of the bed. "No, really," she says earnestly. "You're still the girl who picked fights instead of letting _him_ \- or anyone - push you around. So much stronger than I ever was," Jane adds, almost as an afterthought.

Ella shifts uncomfortably at that. She doesn't deserve Jane's praise. Not really. She'd literally done the least she could do - both at fifteen in aiding Jane's escape and at eighteen in being unable to change the past and alter the timeline. She's continually let Jane down and she can't understand how Jane can't see it that way.

"Jane…"

"You saved my life, Ella, and I won't ever forget the second chance that gave me." Jane fixes cornflower blue eyes on Ella, nodding her head to the bathroom door and the running shower with a faint frown. "I should have told Alec to make sure the town was safe in another way. He didn't need to be so overcautious and use Akira like that."

Ella sighs, pushing her hair off her face, too emotionally and mentally wrought to summer the same ire that tossed Alec against a tree so easily earlier in the day. "That's not on you," she says to Jane with a mild glower directed to the bathroom door. "Believe me, he won't make that mistake again."

"I think you're right about that," Jane agrees.

Ella marinates in the silence for a bit, and then she makes a bleak sort of statement. "You trust him."

The corner of Jane's mouth lifts. "He saved me, too. In a way."

And all Ella can think in response to that - in response to this entire ordeal and this rollercoaster day in particular - is _interesting_.

Because luck or not, she's beyond certain that this will be an interesting turn of the tides.

* * *

 **A/N: That's the end of part 9, except for - I think - two interludes. Yep. An entire arc just to introduce a new character and develop #Anthella. That's a thing that I did. This chapter obviously foreshadows a few things, like the dynamic between Ella and Alec, and the promise of shit hitting the proverbial fan. I kind of adore this characterization of Jane - and Alec is going to grow you readers, I think.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	142. part 9: interlude

**interlude**

* * *

Alec did not know what he was expecting when he came to seek refuge in Charmstone with a human companion, but Ella Cullen is _not_ it.

Jane is slumbering peacefully on a conjured bed, curled up on her side just as she has each night in the motel rooms they lodged at on their way to this hidden town. Weeks of travel has given him opportunity to regard the willowy blonde with a startling amount of tenderness and protectiveness - the absolute last thing he would have anticipated when he fled from Japan six months earlier would be to fall in love, never mind so _quickly_.

Alec sighs, eyes trailing around the cramped loft and stopping on the closed bathroom door pensively. The other magician is taking her turn in the shower, but Alec doesn't doubt for a second that she's keeping tabs on both himself and Jane as she does, and for some reason he can't expect anything less, which is why sleep eludes him. His mind is restless, thinking about the unexpected turn of the day.

The way Ella Cullen presents herself to the world reminds him of the delinquents loitering in Tokyo's school yards, with bleached hair and loud voices and a slouch to their shoulders that spoke of the devil sitting there. She isn't quite what he thought a practitioner of grey magic would be - and perhaps that is his mistake, that misapprehension to think that, when given the option, a magician would always choose light magic without fail. That is not the case, certainly not with Ella.

Alec can see auras, the energies around people made of their emotional states and natural dispositions, and he has developed a keen sense for analyzing them. The only comparison he can think of for Ella is that of a whirlwind, a constant ebb and flow of dichotomous shining silver and deep gunmetal battling around the magician, always striving for dominance.

He thinks there is _something wrong_ with her magic. The amount she has at her disposal is staggering and, of course, in that Ella is the embodiment of a le Fay. There is something awfully, terrifyingly empowering about neutrality. It is a type of endless possibility that Alec is glad not to have.

 _And yet…_

It does not explain the churning of her magic or the horrific shattering of her magician's glass - not a ring like the one he wears on his finger, but a pair of unique chains wrapped around her fingers and wrists. Something truly unthinkable had happened to Ella to make a glass take on that form. It makes him queasy to even contemplate staring down the abyss and making it out of the darkness, alive but not whole.

Is he weaker for it? Maybe.

Alec is of light magic, centered toward life and creation and the balance of goodness to thwart evil, and each one of his instincts bristles to recall how deftly she had maneuvered him into her mercy. And to have spared him of her ire, only to follow that with a threatening reminder and shrug off the incident _so casually_ leaves a metallic taste in his mouth. He does not understand. Somehow, her championship of Jane is able to exist within the juxtaposition of her violence toward Alec.

Recalling the shop downstairs full of magical wares, Alec amends that there is much about Ella Cullen that he does not understand. Having been raised with Solomon's teachings, Alec is baffled by Ella's willingness to violate the sanctity of her gifts in order to profit from her magic. Unthinkable.

 _She is as she is meant to be_ , Akira reminds him, not unkindly.

At this, Alec drops his head back and closes his eyes. Yes, Ella Cullen is exactly as she is meant to be. A natural leader, but a rebellious one, more content to follow her estimation of right and wrong than any other definition. And he does not know if he can place his safety into a town with a magician like Ella running around.

It seems too risky. Especially since he can very clearly sense the powerhouse of the triangular convergence of ley lines crossing all over this area - too much for one place, a beacon so bright that it can hardly be ignored.

Was it a mistake to come here?

Alec turns his head, studying the worry-free expression of Jane's sleeping face, and decides that, no, coming to Charmstone could never have been a mistake. He has been raised to believe in a certain amount of fate, after all, and there is certainly more than one reason he has been drawn here.

In the bathroom, the shower squeaks off and Alec finds himself sitting up, more alert than before as he waits for Ella to emerge. She does after several moments, grey eyes falling on him without a hint of surprise, and it is enough that his fingers still the relentless tapping against the knob of his knee. Ella looks different with her dark hair slicked carelessly away from her face - something in the shape of her cheekbones, or maybe her forehead, or maybe the point of her chin, makes a vague recollection in the back of his mind. She looks like _someone_ , but that sense is there and gone as quickly as it had appeared.

With a idle twist of her fingers, Ella casts a silencing spell around Jane's bed and then plops herself down at the kitchen table after draping her towel over the back of the chair. There is a stack of books on top of the table that is partially blocked by her elbow as she leans her chin onto her hand, staring at him as he stares at her.

Ella breaks the silence. "Why Jane?"

Alec starts; he hadn't expected the question, but he should have. He clears his throat. "A happenstance, being in the right place at the right time. We were both looking for the same thing, this town, and everything just fell together," he says honestly, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "For the record, a _town in upstate New York_ is a terrible set of directions."

"It's supposed to be."

"So I gathered."

"And the stag? Do you have any pretty words to explain that?"

"Akira," he corrects. He pauses, wondering how best to frame his reasons for what he's done. "Akira is my familiar, as I am sure you have gathered. And I am coming to understand that my actions are at best foolish and at worst callous."

Ella shrugs a shoulder, wearing a shirt that obviously is not her own as it is too large by several sizes. "Maybe," she says noncommittally. "But I didn't have to jump down your throat, either. I figure we're even, now. I don't have time to hold onto grudges for too long."

"Oh?"

The deep gunmetal swirls tighter around Ella's shoulders as she answers blackly. "There's always something strange happening in town and with you around, we're going to start needing to plan contingencies for The Order. Not that it isn't a long time coming. I have a bone to pick with them, too."

"You're an orphan," Alec says needlessly.

But when Ella nods, he feels a spark of kinship. He's an orphan, too. And, he suspects, they are orphans for the same reason - The Order. He has the notion that if The Order does not come to Charmstone, then Ella will go to The Order. Alec thinks she might be brassy enough to do something like that. Powerful enough, too.

The weight of Ella's gaze becomes burning for a long moment and, while Alec would never admit it out loud, he is more intimidated by her than even his father. He meets her eyes steadily, wondering if he measures up, if he is rising to whatever expectation she is placing for him. When her eyes slide away and she yawns, Alec feels like he has passed a momentous test.

And, of course, that is when the moment becomes strained once again.

As Ella stands, stretching her arms overhead as she meanders toward her bed, Alec's eyes fall on a familiar script embedded into the spine of a book. He is up off the conjured mattress and hefting a thick, square book in his head faster than he can comprehend, gaping at the leather-bound cover of the book with helpless amazement.

"Hey!"

It's a genealogy book for Morgana le Fay.

Alec has only ever heard about such a book from his father. The book tracking Merlin's genealogy had been lost in a fire shortly before Alec's birth and God only knew where Mordred's book was buried, so Alec had never laid eyes on such a book until now.

It is not his ancestor, but he still feels a fissure of historical reverence as he holds the book. "I can't believe it," he mutters, running his fingers over the cover. "Where did you get this?"

"Found it," Ella says tersely, taking the book back from him with a glower. "You shouldn't touch shit that isn't yours."

"You're right. I am sorry…I've just never seen…"

One of Ella's eyebrows tick upward and she looks down at the book with a sigh. "Oh, for fuck's sake, _here_ ," she says as she passes it back to him.

But Alec is not prepared and the book drops to the floor between them with a thud, pages fluttering as the book lay open between their feet. Ella might say something degrading about his coordination - which is fair - but Alec barely hears her. Because the book has opened to a peculiar page, one flush with silver writing and a single line of _gold_.

Alec kneels, picking the book up carefully, running his fingers over the gold-leaf name standing out so proudly on the page. Renee Silva, deceased and once married to Carl Svane and the mother of the magician standing in front of him.

Renee.

Alec has known all his life that he is not the only child of his father. He has known that he once had two older sisters, both from different marriages, and that both were quite a few years older than him even before they died. Merlynn had been hunted down by The Order and some time before Alec was born, Solomon had lost track of his second-born, Renee, who was also on the run from The Order. Alec has only ever seen pictures of his half-sisters, photographs that are now lost to fire.

Wide-eyed, Alec looks up at Ella, and something clicks into place in his mind. With her wet hair revealing the lines of her face, Alec's fuzzy memory easily finds an origin for the traces that were vaguely familiar before. Ella resembles Renee, albeit with a lighter complexion and more European features. But the height of her cheekbones is all Renee and the point of Ella's chin looks _just_ like Alec's, which he inherited from Solomon.

If Ella's mother is Renee and Renee is Alec's half-sister….

"I'm your uncle," he says in amazement.

Ella wrinkles her nose. "What the fuck?"

Alec holds out the book, finger tracing over the golden name. "Here, see? Renee Silva is - was - my older half-sister, which makes you my niece."

Ella's only response to that is a dumbfounded, "What the _fuck_?"

Alec can only laugh in disbelief, because no, Ella Cullen is certainly not what he expected to find in Charmstone.

And yet he did.

* * *

 **A/N: So, be honest, who saw Uncle Alec coming? I didn't! Just kidding, obviously I did, since I wrote it. Basically, Solomon traveled the globe and fathered three kids - Merlynn, Renee, and Alec - all with different mothers, meaning that they're all half-siblings. Alec was had _late_ in Solomon's life after the death of his daughters, so he's at about 19 right now, making him and Ella only a few months apart in age. It's strange, but it's not so far out there. In fact, my mother is _younger_ than her niece by like 18 months because my mother's sister is 20 years older than her, so. It happens, sometimes.**

 **I hope it isn't confusing. Renee is the link - a descendent of Merlin who made the beast with two backs with a descendent of Morgana, leading to Ella's conception and the ability for Renee's younger half-sibling, Alec, to be Ella's uncle. All leads back to Renee.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	143. part 9: interlude interlude

**interlude**

* * *

Alice's ears are buzzing as the ever-present hum of the whispers begins to steadily grow louder - less of a voice on the wind and more of an increasingly distracting wash of white noise, like ocean waves crashing over rocks. The whispers are talking over themselves instead of harmoniously. She cannot understand what they are saying, what they are trying to tell her, and it makes her head ache from the strain.

She cannot tune them out, that much she knows. If only it were easier to hear the voices beyond the veil, to channel them without ripping out her vocal chords, but she knows of no other ways to cope. Kate and the few other harbingers in Charmstone are of no help and after several conversations with her mother, it is becoming rapidly apparent that Alice far outclasses Esme in her connection to the spirits on the Other Side.

There is nobody for Alice to turn to for advice. Not really. She could seek out Ella, who she views more and more as a sister each day, but Alice and Ella do not share the same problems - and Alice is loathe to adopt Ella's suckerpunch approach to solving her issues.

No, this is something that Alice has to work through by herself. _She_ has to learn control and find a way of coping that works for her. Over the summer, with things being as calm as can be expected after such a tumultuous, dreadful year, Alice has found little things that work for her. A blended tea supplied by Carlisle, of dandelion and chamomile and lavender that she seeps in honey. A tiny, white-paged book and ballpoint pen tucked into the white cross-body bag she's taken to using. A mix of classical music she plays while she sleeps to give her something else to focus on instead of the voices in her head.

But there is nothing to keep the whispers at bay when they want to be heard - and it is especially draining, the jittery, restless energy singing through her veins that has no outlet because the voices, for whatever reason, cannot break through the veil. Her sleep these past few days has been so erratic and she is feeling particularly sluggish. She is relieved to have the clear-all in the form of Ella's fiery silver message fizzling into existence. Alice practically wilts in relief at learning that the deal with the white stag has been taken care of.

If she weren't so exhausted by the whispers, she might have spared a second thought to the apparent ease of the resolution of Charmstone's latest issue. As it is, it is all Alice can do but to put one foot in front of the other and go on about her days, trying to tune out the whispers until they are resolved to speak in harmony.

It is nearing August and the last shove of summer comes in a sweltering heat that makes perspiration bead at her temples, at the line of her collarbone beneath the butter-yellow linen of her shift dress. She is committed to getting a head start on her junior year, selecting the bundles of notebooks and pencils and highlighters she'll need in about a month. Her idea, which her mother agrees wholeheartedly with as Esme is planning on moving into Carlisle's house fulltime, is to scamper back to Red Lily Hall and soak in the blessed peace of her dorm room at least two weeks before term starts. God willing, of course.

Her ears are ringing.

Alice stumbles as she crosses the street and weighed down as she is with a canvas bag of school supplies hanging from her arm, her balance over-corrects. She lists to the side, ankle scraping the curb as the world spins, bright white edging the peripherals of her vision.

Her ears are _ringing_.

She draws in a sharp gasp as someone grips her elbow, gently guiding her backward, easily compensating for the trembling of her suddenly weak knees. The world filters away from her sightless eyes - the heat of the day and the half-finished shopping list in her head and her exhaustion and the grip on her elbow all traded in for the wind-rush of chorusing voices in her ears -

Alice flinches at the whooshing, over-loud, overlapping voices of the whispers -

But just like every other time, something _clicks_ between her ears and her body feels lighter than air and suddenly the whispers coalesce into a choir of soft voices, easily understood as they twist blackened words around an old nursery rhyme -

 _The itsy bitsy sprightstar flew far from the nest_

 _In troves did they dither_

 _All those blighting pests_

 _Drew blood in the sun_

 _And shrieking did they wither_

 _The incy wincy sprightstar did never fly again_

Then, like the snap of a rubberband, the clarity descends back into senseless chatter and Alice's head feels heavier than the rest of her body. Her straight spine flexes into an uncharacteristic slump, supported only by the arm hooked around her shoulders as she tries to get her bearings. Her mind is spinning, reeling, recoiling -

The whispers have delivered to her another premonition of a bleak turn of events on the future horizon.

"Has it passed?"

Alice starts, blinking rapidly as she tilts her head up enough, squinting against the sun as she registers that she is being held up by another person - by Jasper Hale, of all people. His blue eyes are inordinately sharp, brighter against the sunburned ruddiness of his cheeks, his mouth pulled into a serious slant. He studies her for a moment and then hums, guiding her across the street.

Alice is too stunned to protest, trying to wrap her mind around too many things at once. When Jasper eases them into Sam's Diner, she goes along almost and sits at the table he designates, eyes trained sightlessly in the distance. Regaining her equilibrium is always a challenge after an… _episode_ like that one. Usually they happen in the privacy of her room or at home or in the midst of some horrific drama. It's strange that this time would see the voices finally being heard while she is in public - while she is crossing the street, of all things.

Belatedly, Alice realizes how lucky she is that Jasper happened to be there.

Jasper comes back to the table loaded down with a cup of iced chai tea and two raspberry biscotti dipped in white chocolate. He pushes the tea between her hands, slouching down on the other side of the table and remains silent until Alice swallows down half of the drink. "You good?" he asks as she nibbles on the biscotti.

"Yes. Thank you."

"No big deal," he declares lazily.

But Alice disagrees, because she'd have to be deaf, blind, and dumb not to notice that Jasper Hale is sweet on her - and has been for _years_. This side of him is something she's never seen before and a large part of her is pleased to see beneath the veneer of the slow-drawling boy always chasing the next high just to hide his intelligence. A boy who has noticed that she doesn't really enjoy coffee and that she favors raspberries. A boy who can somehow know exactly what Alice needs to stop feeling so off-kilter in the wake of one of her banshee episodes. A striking boy with chin-length curly blond hair tucked behind his ears and a smattering of freckles beneath one of his sharply intelligent eyes and who looks at Alice like she's the grace of the earth.

Her heart flips inside her chest as she becomes lightheaded for an entirely different reason than before. And maybe that's why she opens her mouth and thoughtlessly asks, "Do you know what a sprightstar is?"

Jasper blinks slowly, nonplussed. "I can find out, if you want."

"That might be for the best, I think."

"Consider it done."

His unabashed calm is somehow settling for her and for the first time in a while, the whispers ebb into near-silence. Alice feels herself smiling shyly as she sits across from Jasper, feeling no particular rush to do anything - content to enjoy the moment, for however long it may last.

She is right to assume that the calm before the storm does not linger.

* * *

 **A/N: Oh, don't mind me, I'm just setting up the time frame for the next arc, moving little pieces of development around, dropping a riddle on your head and sincerely hoping that it comes off as creepy as I want it (read it to the tune of the _Itsy Bitsy Spider_ ). Can I just say I love writing Alice's interludes? Like, in particular, Alice and Peter's interludes are _crazy_ easy for me to write. And now that Alice is seeing the light, er, or at least seeing Jasper? Damn, dude, I'm blitzing.**

 **10,000 points to anyone who figures out sprightstar before the Scooby Gang!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	144. part 10: 1: common reactor

**PART TEN**

* * *

 **one**

 **common reactor**

* * *

Ella has grown up marinating in the knowledge that any bonds of blood she shared had long since vanished from the face of the earth, taken by tragedy that smells like _conspiracy_ most days. She is an orphan. It is a modifier that she is comfortable with, an aspect of her identity that she has made peace with. Orphans are, by definition, alone in the world; they have no parents, no family, and even if they do luck out and find a place to belong, there is always a sense of something missing inside.

Carlisle filling the roll of _father_ had been a battle that wore her down into surrender. Finding a _sister_ in Alice had been a tough pill to swallow. Anthony is more part of her than she can quite comprehend. Ella has found somewhere to belong, a home with begrudgingly made friends and a place which she finds precious. But it is all unmistakably built on a bedrock foundation - she is an orphan, through and through.

That foundation is not as solid as she assumed. Apparently.

She tells Alec point blank that she will not _ever_ be calling him "Uncle Alec" and he has the good grace to seem relieved by that. It's _so strange_ , this tenuous connection they have unearthed between them, but it doesn't truly change anything.

When Ella had been small and stupid enough to still fantasize about her family coming to save her from heinous foster homes and frigid orphanages, she always thought that being reunited with her blood relations would be life-altering. Now that she's older, however, such thoughts seem trite. Just because she and Alec share some sort of DNA doesn't change the fact that they are strangers to each other or that he has probably brought The Order of Mordred down on them all.

Nothing is different, not for her. She doesn't feel an instantaneous spark of loyalty or a sense of belonging. Alec is still Alec. She doesn't stop to ponder if he shares that sentiment, although she senses that he is more awed by their connection than she is. And she gets it, sort of. He thought he'd lost all of his family and now he's learned that isn't true.

Ella thinks that he's _soft_ to be so amazed by a few common genetic markers - and maybe that makes her cold-hearted and dismissive to some, but Ella views it as being realistic. She isn't a child anymore. She understands that bonds of family have little to do with blood. Alec may be family, but he isn't _her_ _family_. Whether or not that changes is still up in the air, but for the moment, there are bigger, more pressing issues to deal with.

The next few days after the revelation wrought by the genealogy book pass in a summer-heat haze. Ella is busy sorting through her head and polishing up the store inventory and catching up - a little awkwardly - with Jane. Alec remains on the peripherals, especially after Anthony has sorted his room and board at the bed and breakfast, but he does let Ella pick his brain about what he knows of The Order.

It isn't much.

Ella can't help but ruminate on how little anyone knows about The Order. It's just some shadow organization tracking down magicians and, as far as Ella can tell, doing nothing else. What's the goal, aside from eradicating two bloodlines? She doesn't believe for a second that all The Order wants to do is make sure no descendants of Merlin or Morgan le Fay are alive. It has to be more than that. But if it _was_ more than that, then wouldn't it be obvious that they are involved in other kinds of operations?

They don't have enough information.

Ella suppresses a groan, realizing that she's becoming downright _rational_ and feeling a little discomfited by it. Is this maturity? How boring. Still, there is value in not charging in blindly and she's not dumb enough to think that defending against The Order is even remotely in the same realm as defending against rogue ghouls. Her dealings with the hunters have taught her a valuable lesson - she is powerful, but not infallible.

And she is not the _most_ powerful. Not by a long shot, not against an organization _made_ of other magicians who she and Alec can only assume specialize in black magic. And while Ella can be arrogant, she isn't so cocky as to bet the safety of a few thousand townspeople and college students on her ability to stamp out other magicians in the same way she had Alec.

Resolved, Ella waits until Jane is soundly asleep - pushing down the bafflement that Jane _can_ sleep so peacefully - and teleports directly to Alec's intensely floral suite at the bed and breakfast. The amount of gilt-leafed roses pressed into the wallpaper is alarmingly eye-searing, nearly enough to make her stumble backward in an effort to escape such a _loudly_ decorated room.

Alec is in the process of getting into bed, but he lets loose a stream of Japanese that sounds mostly surprised before he wraps his tongue around English again. "What are you doing here?" he demands, then he blinks in befuddlement. "Did you…did you _teleport_?"

Ella ignores his questions, making a face at the décor. "Do you have nightmares that these roses are going to eat you alive? Because I would."

"That isn't…No, I don't," he answers slowly. Alec drops the pillow he'd been adjusting, straightening to level her with a calm stare as he repeats, "What are you doing here?"

Ella raises a single brow. "We're going to see if we can scrounge up some more information on The Order."

"Really?"

"I know someone who used to work in The Coterie."

Alec lets out a breath of surprise. " _Really_?"

"No, I'm lying just to get your hopes up," she deadpans. "Yes, really. Put on some pants."

Alec trades new pajama pants for jeans, slips on low-top tennis shoes, and heads for the door. He makes a sound of surprise when she snags his elbow as he passes by, a sound which shifts into a green-gilled gasp as they _pop_ right in front of Carlisle's blueberry house. After he dry heaves with his palms propped on his knees, Alec pins her with an incredulous stare. "You can _teleport_."

Ella rolls her eyes. "What, like it's hard?"

Alec scrambles to follow Ella as she strides up to the front door, rapping smartly on the wood. Carlisle is quick to answer, given that it isn't _that_ late in the night, and he seems only a tiny surprised to see her on his doorstep.

Carlisle is naturally a _little_ thrown when his inquiry of _Who is this_? by a blasé introduction on Ella's part as she gestures between the two men. "Alec, this is my adoptive father and ex-Coterie member, Carlisle Cullen. Dad, this is my uncle, Alec. And we're here to talk about some things."

A beat passes, and then Carlisle removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. He looks very much like he is praying for strength. Maybe Ella could have eased him into this revelation with more finesse. "You'd better come in side, then," he says after a moment, placing his glasses back on his face.

They settle into the living room, which is no longer crawling with stacks of books courtesy Esme's organizational skills, and to his credit, Carlisle doesn't even blink when Ella erects a silencing ward around the room. Alec does, but he keeps quiet, even when Ella explains the full breadth of the situation. He only pipes in to explain his close-brushes with The Order, in which it becomes clear that Alec is skilled in evasion and even better at escape.

In the end, Carlisle only has one question. "Why are you coming to me? Think I've got an in with The Coterie, is that it?"

"Basically," Ella replies, sitting back in her chair.

"This is the first I've heard of The Order, it is."

Ella wrinkles her nose. "Yeah, but you haven't worked with The Coterie for, what, like ten years at least? Maybe something's changed. I mean, if you don't know about The Order, then what the hell are all those Coterie members good for?"

Carlisle sighs, long and drawn-out. "The Coterie isn't meant for law enforcement. It isn't very feasible, is it, when most creatures have their own laws that govern them and their own ways of handling conflict. All The Coterie is supposed to do is keep the supernatural world secret from the human world, as you well know. In some cases, The Coterie acts as a prevention aid; in others, the organization acts to clean up messes that are especially noticeable." Carlisle then dips his head in acknowledgement. "However, it sounds like this Order of Mordred is growing more bold - and that _could_ mean that they have drawn the Coterie's attention."

Ella's smile is grim, if not a little satisfied. "You'll see what you can shake loose?"

Carlisle humors her with a dry laugh. "Better I do it than you, innit?"

He's probably right, given Ella's proclivity to be tactless. A more subtle touch is necessary at the moment. It's what she's counting on.

* * *

 **A/N: Yes, that was a nod to _Legally Blonde_ , AKA the reason why I totally entertained studying criminal law for, like, half a second in junior high. And then I learned about that awful test that lawyers have to take and I was like, "Nope!" Still, Elle Woods is an American icon and we honor her by wearing pink (on Wednesdays) (Hey, Mean Girls is a classic too, okay) (Fight me).**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	145. part 10: 2: sprightstar

**two**

 **sprightstar**

* * *

"And what does this one do?" Jane asks as she hooks her finger around a hemp string so that the narrow rowan wood reed whistle dangles in front of her eyes.

Ella looks up from where she is frowning down at the inventory catalogue Peter and Liam have printed up, grateful for the distraction from the tedious task of pricing the wares of the store. Leaning her elbow on the glass counter by the old fashioned cash register - which Jasper found the time to tinker with so that it functions electronically and processes credit cards, much to her surprise - she watches as Jane curiously rubs her thumb on the rune etched into the back of the rowan wood.

"It's kind of like a rape whistle, only it actually stuns the attacker. You know, knocks them out cold and gives someone a chance to get help," Ella answers with a jerk of her chin. "There's another variation, the holly wood one, that temporarily blinds the attacker."

Jane's eyes widen. "Oh, wow. Aren't you concerned about them being used by accident?"

"Not really," she says, tilting her head toward the neat shelves on the walls and the double rows of short bookcases set in the middle of the shop. "A lot of the stuff here is spelled to react to the intent of the user. The whistles won't work unless the user feels genuine fear."

Jane replaces the whistle carefully. "Amazing," she sighs as she meanders over to the front counter. "This whole place, all these trinkets, are just…so unbelievably cool. It's so great what you've done here. I mean, I know Alec has some concerns, but he hasn't given any of this a chance, either. He'll come around."

"I don't need his approval," Ella retorts smartly.

Jane smiles sweetly. "No, I don't guess that you do." Then Jane looks down at the messy sprawl of papers scattered across the countertop and her brows shoot up. "What's all this?"

Ella groans. "Trying to set prices for the inventory before Peter comes back and gets on my case about it."

"Peter seems very…motivated."

"He's a pain in the ass," Ella says plainly, but without heat.

Jane must catch the fondness in her tone, because her smile widens prettily. "You've got a really good thing going here."

Ella nods silently, not quite willing to put a voice to her feelings so freely.

Jane gestures to the inventory. "So, are you using cost-plus price or value-based price to work out the numbers?"

Ella blinks. She looks down, and then she looks back up, nose wrinkled. "Uh…"

"I could take a look at it," Jane offers, tucking her hair behind her ear humbly. "Math is sort of my area of expertise. All I would need from you is how long it takes to make each product and the sales tax that Charmstone prefers and-"

"Oh, God, here. Please, put me out of my misery," Ella says quickly. She shoves the papers in Jane's direction and swiftly removes herself a solid five feet from the terribly frustrating inventory.

Jane laughs outright and bright, loud enough that Peter is startled in the basement and drops something with a resounding _thud_. Ella hopes he hasn't broken anything, not after harping on her about how close the grand opening date is; if he has broken something, there's no way she's letting him live it down.

And then - a tingle of awareness causes the tiny hairs on the back of Ella's neck to rise. Someone is crossing the wards around the shop. Alice, with her misty grey-white lifeline strung tight with tension that has Ella on edge far before Alice actually walks through the door. Ella meets her with her lips pressed together, taking in the stress pinching at the corners of Alice's gimlet eyes and the faint tremor of her hand as she eases the door shut.

Ella has seen Alice like this once before. This is the kind of stress that happens when a banshee comes into a certain kind of knowledge.

"What did you hear?" Ella asks urgently, steering herself and Alice toward the back of the store and out of Jane's hearing range.

Alice closes her eyes briefly. "Something is coming."

Ella's first thought is The Order - of course it is. Her first thought will probably _always_ be The Order while Alec is still claiming sanctuary inside Charmstone's border. But she rules it out, because Alec has only just arrived and she believes him when he ways he thinks he might have scrambled his trail in crossing the Atlantic ocean, which means they _should_ have time to prepare.

Ella's second thought is the return of the hunters - but that can't be right, either. Alice said some _thing_. Not some _one_.

She meets Alice's gaze with a terse set to her expression, hair escaping the hastily-made, stubby ponytail at the nape of her neck. "What is it?"

"Sprightstars," Alice reveals in a hushed voice and a shake of her head. "I don't know _what_ a sprightstar is or why they're coming here. Jasper is looking into it, but he hasn't been having a lot of luck. And I think that we need to be prepared."

Sprightstars.

Ella doesn't _think_ they sound too bad, whatever they are, but Alice wouldn't be receiving a damn _death_ premonition if they were harmless.

Fucking _sprightstars_? Ella rubs her forehead tiredly and sighs, focusing on what she can _do_ about this to get that pathetically harried look off of her sister's face. She is learning how to prioritize in a way that is very _out of the frying pan, into the fire_ , and she can only hope - jadedly - that she will measure up to this massive responsibility that she has volunteered for herself.

Being the person that people rely on, the person that they _go to_ for solutions to their problems, the person they look to for help? It's different than just busting in and using a steely will to save the day, or mouth off at the town council and rush into danger. It's not just about getting things done. It's not just about stumbling into heroism.

It's about deliberately being the answer. And while that's sort of the point of _The Magic Shop_ , to occupy herself with making a tangible difference, she's only just realizing - more than a little belatedly - that she's probably signed up for a lot more than she intended.

Even if Ella _were_ the kind of person who entertained the thought of backing down, which she isn't, it's too late to back out now.

"Come on," she says to Alice, weaving around the shop toward the basement. "We'll get Peter on it. He needs a good research project to occupy himself, anyway, or I might do something to Peter that will make Riley cry."

Alice laughs weakly in response.

Ella tallies it as the second time she's made someone laugh that day - and she thinks that's probably even stranger than whatever the hell a sprightstar is.

* * *

 **A/N: Oh, Ella. Being unintentionally funny. Or is it unintentional? Is it even funny? Who knows? Not me. Obviously.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	146. part 10: 3: brave new world

**three**

 **brave new world**

* * *

The first week of August is, in a word, _uneventful_. Or at least, the supernatural situation in Charmstone is uneventful, with exactly zero developments on the sprightstar front - much to Peter's concentration, Alice's befuddlement, and Ella's dread _, sprightstar_ appears to be some kind of esoteric term that isn't in any book in the shop. But even as Peter expands his search to the basement libraries of Viridity University, he doesn't hesitate to shove Ella headfirst toward the event that marks the beginning of the second week of August.

The grand opening of _The Magic Shop_. Flyers have been posted in appropriate locations, triple-checks of the products have been completed, and Ella has even been persuaded to conjure a not-completely-obnoxious banner titled _GRAND OPENING_ to hang in front of the store. Alec is perturbed by the opening of the shop just as much as Ella is by the team-up of Bree and Jane to decorate the space with bright-hued balloons. But she bites her tongue and doesn't vanish the balloons, and that has to count for something.

It's the night before and she can't sleep. She's been on edge, between preparing for the shop's debut and waiting for whatever the hell Alice has predicted, and even though the week has finally caught up to her, Ella's mind won't shut off. It is so unbelievably fucking frustrating that she wants to scream, her dry eyes itching for the relief that will come if she could just drop off into slumber. If she were alone in the loft, she might have gotten up and wasted all of this pent-up energy on her sketchbook with loud music bouncing off the walls until sheer exhaustion took her. But as it is, Jane is still bunking in the would-be living room and Ella's fatigue is so bone-deep that she's almost riddled by it.

She has to get some sleep. And short of being weak and plying herself with hard liquor, she can think of only one solution that _might_ work. Because even though she has her loft warded to high heaven, even though she knows it's safe - the creeping anticipation that followed Alice's revelation hasn't left Ella in the best state of mind. Keeping busy will only get her so far.

Ella swings her bare legs over the side of the bed, her sleep shorts riding low beneath a stolen, over-large shirt that gapes around her neck, and she stands - reaching for a comforting lupine gold lifeline with a sharp pang of desperation with a source she can't even properly name -

To his credit, when Ella _pops_ into the middle of his dorm room two hours past midnight, Anthony doesn't even flinch. He's sprawled on his back with a book held over his face, one arm tucked behind his head and showing off the delicious stretch of his bicep down to his ribs and the lean ridges of his abdomen, covered only by navy boxer-briefs in deference to the lingering heat of the day. He turns his head toward, placing his book face-down on his chest as he takes in the faint shadows beneath her eyes that cannot be attributed by her dedication to kohl liner.

Anthony frowns, a furrow between his brow as he shifts to hold out his arm in invitation. Ella doesn't hesitate, not for a second, to crawl up beside him on the bed, allowing herself to find comfort in him as the curves of her tired body settle against his. Anthony's arm comes up around her waist and over her shoulder, folding her closer as his fingers dip beneath the loose hem of her shirt. "You're cold," he mutters, stroking a thumb over the ridge of her hip.

"I can't sleep," she says into his collarbone.

He shuffles around for a moment before a thin blanket is tugged over them and even though Ella doesn't _feel_ cold, she shivers at the welcome heat of his skin and the way the blanket is so soft against the back of her legs. Anthony smells like cedar and cinnamon and sandalwood. He feels _safe_. For the first time in a week, Ella can actually feel the tension leech out of her spine.

She should let herself have this more often.

"Want to talk about it?"

She moves her shoulders in a mimicry of a shrug. "Not really." Ella sighs, pressing her chin into his chest so she can meet his steady gaze. "I guess…I might be a little stressed, with the store and Alec and Alice and Jane…"

"A little stressed."

"Maybe a lot stressed."

Anthony's chest rises and falls, slow and easy, his heart thudding beneath her cheek. "Anything I can do to help?"

Her arm snakes over his stomach and she squeezes herself closer. "This helps."

More than she can believe, really.

Lips press against her forehead. "Alright."

"What are you reading?" Ella wonders, nudging the worn paperback cover of the book still balanced over his sternum.

" _Brave New World_ ," Anthony answers softly, picking the book up with one hand. "Dystopian science fiction about basically industrializing human life. Real chilling."

"Read it to me."

Anthony does, his baritone voice rumbling beneath her ear in an unspeakably soothing way, coaxing her eyes to close as she follows the tale of his book, all while his hand strokes smoothly up and down her side. Ella feels at peace - a wholly surreal and unfamiliar feeling.

She must fall asleep at some point, because when she next opens her bleary eyes, the weak light from the window says the morning is just breaking. She's over-warm being pressed so closely against the furnace that is Anthony's body; the blanket is kicked to the floor and her legs have tangled around his, her feet pressed against his shin. Anthony's head is tilted awkwardly and he snores faintly with each inhalation. She doesn't see his book anywhere and she has no real desire to move.

Except -

Her thigh is pressed against an unmistakably bulge and Anthony's hips have begun shifting upward, which is probably what woke her. Her heart flips over between her ribs, a flush of heat traveling up her neck to rest in her cheeks, her fingers digging slightly into his chest as the epiphany of the situation breaks over her mind.

Ella sucks in a breath as a quick internal debate wages war. Move. Don't move. Wake him up - no, don't wake him. Spare the embarrassment for everyone, somehow.

Her attempt to ease from beneath his arm wakes Anthony anyway and she is treated to the sight of pink suffusing the tops of his cheeks and his ears as he also notices their predicament. But when he starts making noises about _natural reactions_ and _no big deal_ and tries to wiggle away - well, Ella can't quite explain _why_ , but she stops him with her palm pressed down on his stomach.

Their eyes meet, a heavy lock of searching gazes. Ella licks her lips; Anthony inhales carefully; they settle down again and this time Ella shifts her leg away from his hips with a challenge glinting in her eye. "Show me," she says, voice raspy from sleep.

His arm tightens around her back but he doesn't drop his eyes. He meets her dare head-on, slipping the elastic of his boxer-briefs down just enough for his cock to spring out between them. When he closes his hand around himself beneath her watchful eye, she leans up and kisses him, all tongue and teeth, a messy passionate thing that catches at the groaning growl building at the back of his throat.

Ella isn't thinking, exactly. She's reacting, floating along with the urges of her body with a blissful negligence to her mind. She sits up on her knees and doesn't balk as she raises her shirt over her head, dropping it somewhere behind her as she smirks at the smoldering intensity of Anthony's gaze. A molten heat trembles between her thighs as his free hand rises, cupping her breast, rubbing his thumb just once over her pebbling nipple as she leans back down to kiss him - breathless and out of her mind.

Ella breaks off, his lips chasing her skin to suck a mark beneath her jaw as she tilts her head down to watch his hand move over his cock. He's uncut because he's a werewolf, something she actually already knew given how free he is with nudity, and part of her thinks that cocks look really strange. The larger part is enthralled by the view of the swollen red head peeking out from snug skin on every down stroke, her mouth inexplicably watering at the sight. She isn't ready for that, though, so she contents herself to letting her hand join his.

Ella's clitoris actually throbs the sound that he makes when he registers her touch. Her hand shadows his, learning the way he likes to be touched with a focus that she can't remember having for anything else. By the time Anthony is fucking upward into their joined grip, Ella is dizzy from the cloying power she feels in this moment - power so much more satisfying than anything else as their combined efforts culminate in Anthony's beautiful grimace and warmth spreading beneath her palm.

His chest is heaving, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and the middle of his chest. He stares at her, unabashed and unashamed of the hedonistic moment as he catches her swollen mouth in a gentler kiss. His lips move against hers and she is keen enough to know that he's silently declaring his heart - words they've been dancing around but have yet to actually speak.

Anthony doesn't push her for anything other than lingering kisses, somehow able to sense that she isn't ready for him to return the favor. Not yet. But she's closer than she was before with the ability to mark _this_ experience down as sober and positive and something she'd very much like to do again.

She's in her own sort of brave new world, after all.

* * *

 **A/N: I'm not even kidding, I'm so _nervous_ about this chapter and hoping that it hit the right note. Also, if you haven't read Brave New World, then you've been missing out. It's _so_ fucked up, such a classic.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	147. part 10: 4: the hard sell

**four**

 **the hard sell**

* * *

"Big turn out," Anthony says with a wry smile once he finds her in the tiny room tucked behind the long glass counter of the shop. He leans against the door frame, scarred brow ticked upward as he watches Ella flip through the giant binder that houses the inventory. He's _amused_ at her and it's annoying.

Because Ella _definitely_ isn't hiding. Really, she isn't. As if _Ella_ would ever be intimidated by the surprising amount of people milling around _The Magic Shop_ as Peter does his best to wheedle customers into a sale while Jane takes up residence behind the register.

"I'm not hiding," she declares.

Anthony doesn't look like he believes her.

She scowls openly at him.

"People are asking about the shop owner. Might be nice if you showed your face."

Ella _does not_ fidget beneath his stare, but it is a near thing. Instead, she presses her lips together and thinks about how Lillian has managed to squeeze Ella into jeans that aren't ripped or splattered in paint - skinny burgundy suede pants in a faint pin-striped pattern paired with a simple snug white shirt - and how her hair is in neat waves in a dramatic side-part. Even her shoes have been upgraded from the worn, muddy pair of combat boots she usually sports, as now a sleek pair of black leather heeled booties adorn her feet. Ella looks like a grown up, but that isn't why she's uncomfortable. She isn't even upset _anymore_ that the combined efforts of Lillian, Bree, and Alice had somehow managed to abscond with her morning coffee until she cooperated with the ambush makeover.

No, she's discomfited by the amount of people she can see over Anthony's shoulder.

It's a massive oversight on her part to _not_ realize how much she doesn't generally like people prior to opening a _fucking retail establishment_. But there it is. Not so much anxiety as it the all-knowing insight that she will most definitely scare customers away when there are _so many of them_ packed into one space.

Ella honestly didn't think _The Magic Shop_ would be popular, not even on its opening day. She thought she was hitting a niche population of potential customers. And she thought wrong.

Very wrong.

Which is why she's hiding-not-hiding in the closet-sized room Jane has been using the past week for book keeping - whatever the hell Jane and Peter and Liam have been canoodling about - trying to look busy, or at least appear like she has an excuse to be vacant from the shop floor.

She doesn't want to have to talk to people. Ella is very much _not good_ in crowds.

Her eyes flit to Anthony's face, her chest seizing briefly at the expression on his face - something that's almost fond and exasperated and understanding and bemused all at once. But when he holds a hand out to her, she doesn't resist as he leads her out of the backroom and into the metaphorical light.

Ella looks around. There's a build-up of two people waiting to check out and Jane is handling them with enviable ease, a practiced-but-genuine retail smile on her doll-like face while she does her own version of a magic trick in beating the register in allocating the totals of each transaction. It's a crowd pleaser, the kind of think that people will remember and maybe even the reason they come back to the store. Good customer service is important, according to Liam. Ella can believe it.

For his part, Peter appears to be doing his best impression of a used-car salesman in peddling the products that people seem most interested in. He does an alight job in explaining the purpose of each product and never fails to tack on a reminder about the reuse ability of the wares. "Don't forget - a lot of these can be brought back to the store to be _recharged_ , so to speak, for a reasonably small fee! It's a steal! It's a bargain! It's one hell of a deal!"

Ella is more than a little impressed that he hasn't broken anything yet in all the excitement.

Anthony squeezes her hand once and drifts over to Alec, with whom he seems to have formed a friendly bond. She would bet money they talk about _philosophy_ or something else dreadfully academic - but she's glad for their budding…bromance or whatever. She's well aware that Anthony is, like her, a loner type and that his only real friend is Lillian. He and Emet don't necessarily get along and Anthony spends a lot of his time tolerating both Peter and his siblings and ever since Vera passed, there's been a void in Anthony's social circle.

She isn't sure if she should feel weird that he's filling that void with her uncle, or not.

She doesn't have the time to figure it out either, because her attention is drawn to Bree on the other side of the store. Bree is calling her name and waving her over with an air of thinly-veiled panic, much to the giggling enthusiasm of the toddler clinging to his mother's skirts as he peers up at the red-faced werewolf.

Ella steels herself and weaves between displays, forcing her expression into affected mild curiosity.

"Oh, thank God," Bree exclaims, wilting in exaggeration. She looks to the mother with a wide smile and a broad gesture toward Ella. "Ma'am, this is the proprietor of this totally cool establishment and the creator of all these gizmos, Ella. And Ella, dude, this is Mrs. Mayberry - she has a question about this, uh, spell block thing that is completely over my head. You can totally help here, right?"

"Sure," Ella agrees, a little stiltedly.

Despite her experience working at the store on campus, Ella isn't what anyone would call _skilled_ in customer service. Her job at The Student Center mostly consisted of managing the register for harried, not-exactly-talkative college students and, not being so loquacious herself, Ella had been able to get the job done. That amount of effort probably won't jive at her _own_ store, so she calls on the same skill set she used back in the foster system when she was still dumb enough to try and charm foster parents into keeping her. Mostly, this means pasting on an affable façade and hoping that it holds.

Bree drifts away with an additional cling-on in the form of a cherubic, still-giggling little boy, much to her apparent distress and Mrs. Mayberry's blatant amusement.

"You had a question?"

Mrs. Mayberry smiles kindly, propping a hand over the small bump of her stomach as she turns back to a section of the shelved wall where an assortment of oak cubes are stacked in neat rows, each of them carved with a rune painted in a different color. "Yes, these cubes are, as I understand it, able to create bubbles of some sort?"

"Temporary wards," Ella corrects.

"Yes, temporary wards…that can be put up and taken down at will? It's very important that these wards are flexible."

"Essentially," Ella answers promptly, skimming her eye over the expectant mother. "If you don't mind, what exactly are you wanting to use these for?"

Mrs. Mayberry's head tilts toward her son and then her eyes drop pointedly to her stomach. "My son is a very light sleeper and newborns aren't exactly known for being quiet. I was hoping that these cubes would be able to keep his room quiet and then I would just place a baby monitor in the room with him so I would be able to hear if he needs me…But I suppose magic isn't the solution to everything?"

"Well, not exactly," Ella hedges. "Magic is the solution to all kinds of issues and it can help you here. I can even customize the cube to where sound can only go one way when the ward is up, so you won't have to mess around with baby monitors…"

"I'm sensing a _but_ ," Mrs. Mayberry says wisely.

Ella looks at the woman's lifeline again - specifically at the tell-tale shimmer beneath the benevolent green. Mrs. Mayberry is a potential, just like her son, but it seems that she hasn't undergone any transformations into any other creature, leaving her entirely human. Still, with the potential in Mrs. Mayberry's blood, Ella kind of feels obligated to let her know what using something like the runic spell cube would do. Unlike a lot of the items in the shop, while the runic spell cubes are prepped for a spell that needs only be activated, the cubes aren't reliant on intent alone - they need a burst of actual magic to work, be it from a shapeshifter or a fae or a hedgewitch. The cubes aren't exactly intended for blank-slate potentials.

Ella pins Mrs. Mayberry with a serious stare. "Are you aware that you're a potential? That you have the potential to learn magic, if you wanted?"

Mrs. Mayberry starts. "I- oh, well, yes. Yes, I am aware. It's passed along the maternal side of my family. My sister is a hedgewitch, you see, but I never felt the need to follow in her footsteps. Why is that at all relevant?"

Ella nods to the runic spells cubes. "Using one of these would tip you over the edge because they require magic."

"Oh," Mrs. Mayberry says disappointedly. She shoots a dejected, stress look toward her son. "I see."

"But I could custom make something for you," Ella finds herself offering.

"Truly? And it wouldn't require me to use any magic at all?"

"Guaranteed."

That is the first time - but certainly not the last - that Ella books a customized order for a product at _The Magic Shop_ , setting up a time in the next week for Mrs. Mayberry to come back for the specialized cube Ella is already planning out how to craft in her head. The store quiets down after that and Ella commandeers half of the glass counter, sketching out plans for the cube while Jane steadily rings up purchases and answering any questions of the customers that Peter and Bree call her to over the course of the next few hours.

It isn't until it's near closing time and after most of the gang has cleared out to the loft upstairs to place orders for take-out and queue up a celebratory movie that the metaphorical big-bang of the day happens.

Elisabeth Masen walks through the door as a straggling customer is leaving. As she wanders around the store, Ella straightens up behind the counter, dropping her voice low as she sends Jane upstairs under the guise of telling Anthony that his mother has arrived. Jane agrees easily, seeing nothing of the tension that is filling the store, and trots up the back staircase.

Not moments after Jane is out of view, Elisabeth Masen turns around and speaks from the middle of the store. "This is impressive. I can see why Stefan was upset to lose this retail space."

"Stefan is always upset," Ella says flippantly.

Elisabeth hums in agreement, but falls silent.

Ella doesn't possess enough patience to beat around the bush. "Are you here for a specific reason?"

"Just checking that these products are safe."

Ella bristles. "How thoughtful of you," she grits out. She takes a deep breath, making an effort to be civil because she knows that Elisabeth probably isn't _intending_ to be so fucking sanctimonious. Plus, the tug of the golden lifeline joined to hers tells her that Anthony is on his way downstairs and she really should make an effort for _him_ , if nothing else. Ella forces a tight smile. "Everything in the shop, except for the books, are rigged to only work by intention and most of it is geared toward self-defense. Some stuff is for students, like those pens you're examining so thoroughly."

Elisabeth puts down the pen. "That's very reassuring."

"Yes, well, I made it a point to put limitations on things sold here."

Elisabeth smiles thinly. "Quite. You're a very smart girl, Ella. Very inventive and resourceful. An asset to the town and the town council," she adds right as Anthony slips into the store from the back stairs.

Ella isn't stupid - she knows that Elisabeth's conciliatory attitude is for her benefit. But a small part of her does crow in victory when Anthony crowds around her back instead of greeting his mother with an embrace, as is part of many werewolf greetings. He is warm and solid against her spine, and carries with him a sense of calm that Ella sorely needs. She feels her shoulders drop as his hands close around the tops of her arms.

Elisabeth notices their closeness and her expression warms, though she doesn't comment. And Ella finds _that_ very interesting. Elisabeth Masen is one of those rare people that Ella can't _quite_ get a grip on - other than knowing that the matriarch often acts for the greater good, that is.

She wonders if that's how people feel about her, like she's one hell of an enigma, and then her mouth is moving before she can really stop it. "We're a lot alike, then."

Elisabeth appears briefly surprised. "I suppose we are."

A beat passes.

"It appears I owe you an apology," Elisabeth says stiffly. "Your hunch about the fainting from last month proved to be an important matter, as I am sure you know the town is now acting as sanctuary for a certain new resident. I must…applaud your tenacity in protecting the town where the council would not. We have resolved to make a better effort to listen in the future. I'm afraid we have been treating you - both of you - as children…and it is clear that you are not."

It is not often that Ella is struck speechless - but this is one of those times.

Luckily, Anthony is comfortable in speaking for both of them. "Thanks, Mom. Means a lot to us."

Elisabeth nods and Ella realizes how humbling this experience must be for her.

Of course, that doesn't mean that she appreciates Anthony's cheeky comment once his mother is gone. "I think she likes you," he mutters, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to the nape of her neck.

Except before he can, Ella elbows him and he grunts instead. She rolls her eyes and catches the beltloop of his jeans, flicking her fingers backward to the store, lowering the lights and switching on the neon red _Closed_ sign. "Come on, smartass. I'm hungry and I heard someone talking about white sauce pizza."

Anthony only lets her go upstairs after capturing her mouth in a surprisingly playful kiss.

* * *

 **A/N: Setting up the function of the store and the limitations of the products. And also because Anthony _needed_ that last line for reasons. You guys, I ate so many caramel M&M's I might actually be sick. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	148. part 10: 5: white, black, grey

**five**

 **white, black, grey**

* * *

Three weeks after Alice gave her utterly creepy warning about _sprightstars_ and nothing has happened. Not a damn thing. Not a peep in the forest, not an uptick in hospital admissions, not even a change in the late summer weather to something unseasonable. Peter checked. And he keeps checking - everything - as he immerses himself in the Viridity libraries, looking for _anything_ that matches up to what Alice has predicted. He seems to derive some kind of pleasure from all the searching, almost gleeful each time he reports back empty handed because it means he gets to keep his excuse of spending nights in the library like the _complete_ nerd that he is.

Ella, on the other hand, is growing more and more restless. She doesn't like waiting for impending disaster, so much so that she almost wishes Alice had just kept the whispers to herself this time. If Anthony notices that Ella's moods are on a hairtrigger and that she is searching the wards relentlessly with magic, then he wisely doesn't say anything. For his part, he and Bree are running rotating patrols as inconspicuously as possible and he is perhaps just a tad more eager to welcome Ella into his bed when she settles down enough to sleep - usually from sheer exhaustion.

It is only the Scooby Gang that know anything about whatever doom is on the horizon and Ella is reasonably sure that everyone is slyly plugging into their resources. Lillian has certainly been spending a lot of time at the police station, at least, and more than once Ella has seen Riley networking in town, plastering on a rarely-seen charm that makes people want to talk to him.

Jane and Alec, however, have no idea and Ella very much wants to keep it that way.

At the moment, Jane seems happy enough to run the floor of _The Magic Shop_ for a standard hourly wage - which Ella insisted on - and she is making herself a familiar face in town as she chats amicably with each customer. Business isn't as hectic as the opening day last week, but there is a steady flow of people trickling in and out and it hasn't yet become so busy that Jane has requested help. Of course, that begs the question of what Ella will do once Jane has gone back to New York City to finish her mathematics degree. Which, when does Jane's semester start? In roughly another week, just like Viridity?

Ella isn't so sure she wants to see Jane go. But that isn't up to her.

Down in the basement, with her back resolutely turned to the stairs where the hag once kept her chained and drugged for days, Ella sits at the wood-and-metal work bench beneath a glow of white-blue magical lights. Her issues with the basement aside, she has come to view the space as _hers_ \- as something she has claimed, or _reclaimed_ , as Kebi had pointed out. It's a small step in Ella's healing process, which is slow-going as ever, but confronting the space and conquering it and making it _hers_ has gone a long way to soothing the brittle shard of fear she still has for the dark space beneath the basement stairs. With time, Ella will probably mostly get over what the hag is done - and maybe by then, she'll be able to look at the scarred sigils on her arms with something other than a churn of her stomach and an unhealthy amount of loathing. Maybe, like the basement, she'll be able to reclaim her skin as _hers_ \- be able to reclaim her body as _hers_ completely.

But for now, with the restlessness singing through her limbs and her magic building up like static in her bloodstream, Ella pours her focus into crafting a set of three throwing knives. The internet is a strange place but with Jasper's help, Ella had ordered professionally graded steel knives from some dark website, which had been delivered to the shop a few days ago.

They aren't at all like Merlin's athame, which is lost in a time loop. The trio of knives fit well in the palm of her hand, double-edged, perfectly sharp, and expertly weighted - knives that are meant to be thrown with accuracy. Ella can honestly say that she's looking forward to practicing the skill she mastered when she was trapped three years in the past. She is all too aware that her magic might not be adequate, after all, and having a secondary defensive skill is intoxicatingly reassuring. She isn't sure what that says about _her_ , exactly, but she's beyond caring at this point.

With the knives laid out on the table before her, Ella hovers her palms an inch away from gleaming metal, eyes closed as she casts the most useful charms she can think of to make the knives unbreakable, silent, and perfectly lethal conduits of herself and her magic. The strain of the work isn't any different than enchanting any of the items in the shop above her head, but Ella's intent to make it impossible for any other magic-user to tamper with steals the whole of her focus - so much so that she doesn't notice Alec's presence until he's halfway down the basement stairs.

She opens her eyes and finishes the spell, pointedly ignoring Alec until he clears his throat. Only then does she roll her eyes, complete the spell, and swivel around in her stool to level him with a droll stare. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?"

Alec shifts, as if he isn't sure how to take her greeting, and clears his throat again.

Ella suppresses a blatant show of glee - she likes that she unnerves him because it _definitely_ makes up for his constant vague disapproval. She raises a brow expectantly.

Alec leans to the side in an attempt to peer over her shoulder to view her workbench. "What are you crafting? It felt like pretty intense magic…"

An idea peaks in Ella's mind; Alec has come to visit _just because_. He's probably lonely, or something. And, she can concede, that he _does_ have a reason to seek her out for company, however ill advised, because of the shared blood between them. Just like Alec is the only blood family Ella has, so too is Ella the only family Alec has left. She could see why he would want to cling on to her, given that she understands he comes from a happy family dynamic, and for a fleeting second she feels like a bitch for intentionally baiting him with a devil-may-care attitude.

That second passes in a flash, because once Alec sets his eyes on her new throwing knives his face transforms into one of unrepressed horror and all Ella feels is vindication for her attitude. God, but does light magic really make people into wet blankets, or what?

"Are those _knives_?"

"Yes," Ella answers succinctly. She picks one up, flipping it around in her hand, having long since gotten over the fumbling that split her skin when she was learning how to handle Merlin's athame. Ella holds it out to Alec, tilting it in the blue light. "Throwing knifes. Or if you want to get technical, I suppose it's a dagger. But the purpose is the same."

"You would use those? On…on a sentient life?"

Frosty detachment slips into Ella's response. "If I have to. I will use every advantage I have to ensure my survival - and I _have_ taken every opportunity within reach to ensure the safety and survival of the people I care about. There isn't anything wrong with that."

Alec frowns. "Taking another life is always wrong, even in self-defense."

Ella snorts. "In a perfect world, sure. But in a world that doesn't play by conventional rules, that kind of black-and-white thinking is going to get you or someone else killed."

Alec shakes his head. "I must disagree."

She shrugs. "That's your prerogative."

"There are limits to how far you're willing to go! There are consequences for using dark magic, for having ill intent and committing crimes against the sanctity of life," Alec insists stubbornly, a spark of anger in his eyes as he gestures to the shards that make up her magician's glass. "Surely you can see that! Look what has already happened to _your_ soul-"

Ella stands, pushing away from the table with a surge of anger, the items in the basement shivering under the force of her magic abruptly burning in her veins. "You don't know shit about me, Alec, or what I've been through, or _why_ my soul is the way it is. Don't forget that," she says warningly, advancing a step. "You want to know why my glass is like this? Because I died - twice. Because some old bitch put me through a dark ritual. Because I haven't had an easy life, or even a very good one. Because I'm _damaged_ and I'm _fucked up_ but I am _not_ broken. You remember that."

To his credit, Alec stands his ground, but his eyes do widen at the onslaught of this information and his lips part on a shaky exhale. "I didn't know," he mumbles after a moment. "I made an assumption and -"

She releases a short, humorless laugh. "You made one hell of an assumption, but you weren't completely wrong," she says darkly, savoring the way he stands up straighter, the way he looks at her like she's a dangerous thing. "I have killed before, both in self-defense and because they _deserved_ to die, and I'll be honest, I will probably kill again. The ends always justify the means."

Alec pales. "That's…"

"It's reality. It's the real world." She shrugs, affecting carelessness that she doesn't completely feel, stomping down on the hot flush of rage that makes her want to shout, to throttle these ideas into Alec's head, because she _knows_ she's right. Even if it does stain her soul, or whatever, Ella does what has to be done - what _should_ be done. Someone has to.

"No."

"Oh? Then what are you going to do when The Order comes?" Ella challenges harshly. "Are you going to spend your entire life running? How do you think that's going to work out?"

She bites her tongue before she adds another inquiry: _How did that work out for your father, Solomon? The Order found him anyway and he wasted all that time running when he could have been fighting_.

Alec glares at her. "I will figure it out _without_ resorting to compromising my morals."

Ella scoffs. "Good luck with that," she says, twirling the knife in her hand as she spins on her heel, and in the same motion slinging the blade into the nearest wall. She looks over her shoulder at him, one brow raised. "But just know that if The Order comes knocking on my door, they won't be seeing me fleeing with my tail between my legs. Luckily for you, that's something that works to your advantage - see, I'll do what has to be done and you won't have to soil your lily-white hands. Nice how that works out, huh?"

"I don't want anyone killing on my behalf," he protests faintly. "That would be wrong, too."

She looks at him with disbelief, shaking her head. "Unbelievable. You can't have it both ways, Alec. One day, you'll have to smudge that bottom line of yours if you want to keep breathing."

"I refuse to accept that," he says. "There is always another way, so long as there is hope."

"You're naïve."

"And you're cynical," he shoots back.

Ella rolls her eyes. "Whatever. Are we done with this impromptu debate, or what?"

"I'm going," Alec says, bristling at her tone.

"Good," Ella mutters, retrieving the knife from the wall.

She has disturbed dreams that night - bleak visions of the twisted thing her soul is becoming - and Ella resolves to not breathe a word about it to anyone. Instead, she presses against the warmth of Anthony's skin and spends hours sketching the sharp lines of his profile and does not return to sleep.

She might be right - and in some ways, Alec is right, too. Because the ends justify the means so long as the point of no return isn't passed.

But Ella fears she might have passed that point a long time ago.

* * *

 **A/N: Neutral and light magic don't jive so easy it seems. Of course, the magical alignments are just basically metaphors for moral philosophy theories. Right now, the argument between Alec and Ella is like the debate between consequentialism and deontology. Personally, I skew more toward Kant's philosophy. As you might have guessed, I _really_ enjoyed my philosophy electives.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	149. part 10: 6: in the dead of night

**six**

 **in the dead of night**

* * *

Days later as Ella is sleeping safe with Anthony curled against her back, there is a flutter faint as a moth's wings against her consciousness - and her eyes snap open in the dead of the night. The unrest and tension from the last several days yields expected results as Ella is able to quickly run through which ward that has snagged her attention - not the shop and not the ones around Anthony's dorm room, or the ones around Carlisle's house, or the ones around the Masen territory.

It's barely a glimmer, but Ella knows that something has come across the Charmstone border. Something magical in nature. Exceptionally small, though; if not for Alice's warning and the resulting vigilance Ella feels, she wouldn't have noticed it. But she's been looking for something, anything, and here it is -

An urgent tug from the silver chain linking Ella to her familiar. She sits up abruptly, waking Anthony in the process as his hand falls to her hip, fingers curling around bone as he leans up on his elbow to peer at her face in the near-pitch darkness.

"What is it?"

"Raven," Ella murmurs, slipping away from the welcome heat of his touch. Her mind is focused on Raven, on trying to see through Raven's eyes and feel what Raven feels because Raven _does not_ freak out or ever feel _this_ urgent, like something bad is happening. Raven is ever nonplussed.

Except for now.

 _Carnage_. Raven's assessment comes with a brisk sense of analysis. _Prey is very fast. Too quick for me_.

"She lost them, whatever it is," Ella says to Anthony, reaching to pull on jeans and the thin hoodie he'd been wearing earlier. As she stuffs her feet hastily into her shoes and makes sure that her knives are easily accessible, she looks up at her wolf through the fringe of her lashes. "I'm going to go check it out," she states, waiting for a beat to see if he will protest or call off her inclination to action.

Anthony does neither, pushing fingers through his wild burnt toffee hair as he watches her prepare with an air of solemnity. "Do you want me to come?"

That's different. Usually he invites himself along with a kind of mule-headed implication that he needs to be there to watch over her, as if she weren't capable of doing it herself even though she knows he doesn't mean it that way. But this, patiently waiting for an invitation? She doesn't think it's just because he's the type who is slow to shake sleep off. He's simply putting his trust in her that she knows her own limits and can assess danger without him hovering as a big, manly protector.

She appreciates it. She can meet him half-way.

Ella traces her eyes appreciatively over the taut muscles of his stomach, the roundness of his shoulders, the angle of his jaw, and her lips turn upward just a bit. "You'll probably need pants."

"If you insist."

Hand in hand, Ella teleports them both to the place where Raven is waiting on a fallen log, the displacement of air popping in their ears as they land on dewy grass in the earliest hours of the morning.

No. Not dewy grass.

The scent of copper is too rich, clogging up Ella's nose as her eyes adjust to the dim moonlight spread over the macabre tableau they have landed in. Her stomach clenches at the sight of the mangled and dismembered rabbits spread across the tiny clearing, the rusty stain of blood dripping from leaves and grass and slicking the mud beneath her feet. She's seen some fucked up stuff - autopsy photos of hearts ripped out of chest cavities and Seth's ill-fated dead-pet-vortex and a family burning alive - but this is beyond the pale. She's never seen anything so gory.

"Poor Thumper," she mutters, trying to figure out how a collection of rabbits could be just…torn apart. It doesn't make any sense that something that could do _this_ is small enough to _barely_ register as passing through the wards or that whatever it is can flee faster than Raven can fly.

Anthony kneels down, inhaling deeply with his eyes gleaming bright verdant. She doesn't know how he does it - the smell is overwhelming for her and she doesn't have his enhanced senses. "Barley," he says after a moment, then shakes his head. "Or wheat. Hops, maybe."

"We're looking for beer?" she asks flatly.

"Or something that lives in grain fields," he says pointedly.

She looks at the carnage again, this time warily. "That's one clue we didn't have before. Peter might be able to work with that."

* * *

 **A/N: Some casual intimacy and _all the clues_.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	150. part 10: 7: spilled milk

**seven**

 **spilled milk**

* * *

Ella happens to be on the store floor to restock the popular spill-and-tear resistant recycled paper notebooks that are selling like hotcakes to the college crowd in Charmstone when it happens - Lillian, Alice, and Bree meander into The Magic Shop mid-conversation.

"Apparently, the police are convinced that the rabbit thing is the work of a budding teen psychopath," Lillian is saying with a faint curl of her lips, shaking the drizzle of rain off her sleeve.

"Really?" Bree breathes. "That's awesome. I mean, it's fucked up that casual murder of woodland creatures is an appropriate hobby for all the wanna-be young Hannibals and Dexters, but…they're, like, so wrong. Right?"

Alice closes the shop door behind them, pinning Lillian with an expectant stare. "All of the police are buying into this theory?"

"From what I can tell," Lillian answers blithely. "But, come on. Like, which would you rather have? An easily apprehended teenager or the kind of supernatural plague like you've been predicting?"

"Yeah, I'd vote for the teenager, too," Bree says resolutely. "Too bad it's the other thing."

And that is when Jane drops the coins she'd been sorting from the cash register on the counter with a gasp and a series of tic-tack sharp bleats of metal hitting the class counter, several quarters and pennies rolling and bouncing onto the floor.

Ella curses, loudly. She hadn't wanted Jane to know about any of this and risk getting roped into the constant churning situation in Charmstone. Too late for that now, though, between the three big-mouths now darting shocked eyes between Ella and Jane. Alice at least as the grace to be chagrined and Lillian presses her lips together tightly.

Bree, however, has the utter fucking gall to smile sheepishly. "Whoops."

"Whoops?" Ella echoes incredulously. "That's it? Whoops?"

"Well…"

"Never mind that you - none of you - made any effort to keep that conversation private, especially given how the town at large is ignorant of the brewing situation," Ella bites out coldly, crossing toward the middle of the shop. "More importantly than that, you also revealed details to a human only barely in the know!"

Bree reddens, flicking her eyes to Jane again. "Geez, okay. We get it. But, like, no use crying over spilled milk, right?"

Ella grits her teeth, clamping down on the spring-loaded magic trying to coil outward.

Bree puffs out her cheeks. "Sorry, Mom," she mutters, as if trying to lighten the situation with humor.

It doesn't work.

The noise Ella makes is inarticulate, like an inward scream as her eyes widen in disbelief. The rationalization for her explicit mood swing toward anger is humming in the back of her mind - Ella is still trying to protect Jane, in some way, and she's convinced herself that a careful separation between her world and Jane's is the answer to achieving that. And yet, the longer that Jane stays in Charmstone, the more difficult that becomes. And now in one careless fell swoop, Jane is clued in that not everything is as Ella has been painting it to be.

Bree is right, though. It isn't like Ella can turn back the clock and undo the last three minutes. Jane knows something is up and that is the new normal. With that in mind, Ella takes a deep breath and pushes down her anger.

Pointedly, Ella flicks her fingers to the front of the shop, flipping on the Closed sign and lowering the curtains on the window. Then to Lillian she says, "Fine. What's this about the cops?"

Lillian explains the working theory she's gleaned from her contacts at the Charmstone Police Department - that some rowdy kids or maybe just one kid are responsible and that maybe it's a one-off thing. Even the wolves working with the badge seem to buy the story, which Ella can only chock up to willful ignorance. Alice is also quick to add that Charmstone's newspaper, run by Esme, is aware of the strange circumstances surrounding the deaths of seven rabbits in the forest, but that the newspaper is also declining to run the story at the behest of Mayor Newton, who doesn't want to incite undue panic. This is the first time that it really occurs to Ella that the news in Charmstone is heavily censored for the sake of keeping the humans and the relations between various creatures as peaceful as possible.

Ignorance really is bliss. She isn't sure how she feels about that - but knowing that not all of the humans are aware of the town's supernatural underbelly, she also can't fault the logic. She can tell that Alice does, though, and wonders if that's a cause of contention between the journalism major and her mother. Probably.

More importantly, however, is the fact that Bree only popped around the store after her patrol in the forest to inform Ella that she and Anthony haven't picked up the barley-wheat-hops scent again. Meaning that the situation is at large pretty stagnant and the gang is, once again, kind of blind until more clues pile up.

It isn't ideal.

All the while, Jane has been listening and picking up the coins she dropped earlier, neatly sorting them into stacks on top of the counter. When she sees Ella sigh heavily, she chooses that moment to speak up. "What about other towns?" Jane asks.

Ella stops rubbing at the tension headache building behind her eyes. "What?"

Jane doesn't shrink away from all the eyes aimed in her direction, though she does fidget with a penny dancing between her fingers. "It's just…I've noticed that Charmstone is kind of…insular? And it doesn't really seem like you guys are branching out far enough…"

Lillian smiles, wide and sharply curious. "Continue."

"It's just…this wouldn't be an isolated incident, would it?" Jane wonders. "I mean, maybe this is the first time with Charmstone, but surely something similar has happened in the surrounding towns…"

"That's brilliant," Lillian praises, immediately reaching for her phone. "I'm calling my brother. He's been looking for an excuse to hack into the police servers in Middleton and Harbor forever."

Ella raises a brow at Jane. "Trust an outsider to show us our blind spots," she says.

Jane blushes. "It's just a matter of statistics, right?"

"I guess," Ella says doubtfully.

Honestly though, she thinks it's a matter of her making the mistake of underestimating Jane. After all, not just any girl would latch onto the first hint of magic she came across just to track down an old foster sibling and then stay in a town populated with urban myths. Whether or not Jane is fragile isn't the point, even though Ella has made it that way.

Jane isn't a shrinking violet - and Ella wouldn't be making that error again.

In the end, this is how they learn that all the way from Canada there has been a trail of dismembered bodies left behind in forests, hiking trails, and the sides of seldom-used back roads. It takes Jasper a few days to compile all of the incident reports and obituaries for the rare human that crossed paths with whatever it is that prefers its meals drawn and quartered, but at the end they have a clearer picture. Most often, the incident reports paint a painfully familiar picture; just one case of smaller game being ripped apart, like the rabbits, and then a week, maybe two weeks later, it starts again but in more devastating numbers. Most recently, an entire horse ranch in Vermont had been dismantled - horse and people alike - in the same gruesomely gory method as the rabbits in the forest.

Ella doesn't know what to make of it and she doesn't understand how something like this doesn't make national news. Maybe because there's no way to link the incidents unless someone like Jasper is doing the digging. Maybe because the government wants to keep it quiet, sharing the mistaken belief that a serial killer is to blame. She doesn't know. Anthony doesn't know either. And upon learning of the trail left behind, Alice only looks stricken, so she doesn't have any other clues to offer.

It's Alec that makes the observation, though. "If it weren't the wrong time of year, this would almost be like a migration pattern," he says stiltedly, sitting in on the meeting where Jasper has passed around hacked copies of police reports from the last two months. He's staring down at his report with a frown and so he doesn't notice the way that Peter's head snaps up after her speaks.

Ella notices. "Peter?"

"Holy shit," he breathes, lurching away from the seat he shares with Riley and pacing excitedly around the loft. "That's it. That's it! Migration - I've been looking at all the wrong things!"

"Are you going to share with the rest of class, or what?" Bree demands.

Peter's hair flops in front of his face at his exuberant nod. "I know what it is!" he declares proudly. And then he blanches and his eyes go round and he looks vaguely queasy. "Oh, God. I know what it is."

Ella braces for the worst.

* * *

 **A/N: Fun fact about the chapter title - apparently, both spilt and spilled are appropriate spellings for the old idiom about crying over milk and both are totally acceptable. However, as spilt is the UK version and I'm thoroughly American, I opted for spilled. It should be noted, however, that the idiom "don't cry over spilt milk" does originate from Britain…so now you know a lot of things and can impress your friends with useless trivia.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	151. part 10: 8: oh, great

**eight**

 **oh, great**

* * *

A night passes after Peter's great revelation and the following day after Ella has closed up the shop early, the entire group convenes back at the store - not the loft, because the group is getting bigger and Ella is tired of hearing about _leg room_. With the question answered of what _sprightstars_ are, Ella has slept marginally better than the last few weeks, her belly warm from coffee and one of the chocolate muffins Alice has brought to the gathering.

Everyone has regrouped with the idea in mind to be prepared. Nobody wants another _wrong-murder-horse_ fiasco where they are constantly a step behind. She thinks that they're all learning on a shitty curve, but she also doesn't know how to change it. Life is about experience. This is experience.

Even so, as everyone settles against shelves and sprawled on the floor, Ella finds that her attention is split away from where Peter paces lively before them all - part of her mind is scanning the wards, searching for that moth-light touch that woke her the other night. She hasn't found anything; and in the skies, neither has Raven. It doesn't stop either of them from looking or anticipating.

Peter claps his hands together, a little wild-eyed and keyed-up. He licks his lips, trying to figure out where to start, and then forges ahead with his usual rat-tat-tat prattling. "Okay, so, the whole world is full of, like, a thousand different kind of ecosystems that kind of keep everything in balance, right, and like there's a human ecosystem and then the stuff in ponds with tadpoles and then, like, jungles have their own and deserts have their own and tundras are their own crazy deal, but it's all really a part of the _big_ ecosystem being, you know, the planet and-"

"I thought you were a historian," Bree interrupts with a pop of gum.

Peter starts. "What?"

"You're talking about science and stuff."

"Yeah."

"Well, you're studying revolutions and Marco Polo," Bree points out. "So why do you know all this random ecosystem stuff?"

Peter does his best imitation of a fish before he blurts, "Oh, my _God_ , this is crap that everyone knows. This is, like, basic third grade stuff, and really, how do you even _survive_ -"

"Get to the point, Peter," Ella cuts in a with a roll of her eyes.

Peter visibly reels in his general bafflement and nods, propping his hands on his hips as he looks up at the ceiling. "Right, where was I? Ah, yeah. Okay, so basically the world is full of all these insane ecosystems and they all interact with each other. Like, every little piece is important and when something is thrown off balance, then weird shit starts happening. Bees become endangered, there's more algae in ponds, penguins get lost in the artic. You get the picture, yeah?"

Bree opens her mouth to say something, but Anthony pins her with a narrow-eyed look and her teeth snap together, much to the collective relief of the entire group.

Instead, it is Emet who speaks up, deep voice tinted in confusion. "I do not understand how this information relates to the current predicament."

Riley sighs heavily. Ella suspects he's probably heard Peter's spiel on this subject at least three times overnight and she can't say that she envies him, because she's _lived_ with an overly-excited Peter and it really isn't any fun.

"It's like this," Peter begins knowledgably. "Supernatural creatures are part of their own ecosystem, too, only it's more like predator versus predator. Like, the way that magic-users rank in power is sort of like the way owls eat snakes, right, and that's how creepy hags happen, because they're eating other predators. It's why trolls and goblins are at each other's throats all the time and why there's magical plants that only effect our kind of people. It's all part of our ecosystem. And, like, going with that theory, the thing we're looking forward to is the migration of basically the equivalent of supernatural pests."

"Bloodthirsty pets," Bree mutters.

"Like spiders?" Alice clarifies.

Peter shakes his head. "Not really? I mean, spiders serve an actual purpose in an eco system, so…"

"Ants," Lillian suggests.

"Eh."

"Mosquitos?" Jasper wonders with an easy air.

"Sort of?"

"Cockroaches," Alec tries.

"Ew," Jane breathes - and yes, Ella completely understands Jane's revulsion because just like rats and pigeons, New York City is somehow also responsible for a particularly unique brand of roaches and she would be happy to never set eyes upon one ever again.

Peter makes a face, but nods. "Pretty much..."

"Magical cockroaches," Ella muses. She meets Alice's gaze. "Sprightstars."

"Or more colloquially, what we're dealing with is pixies," Peter says confidently right before he winces. "Pixies with a penchant for blood and a habit of multiplying in truly terrifying numbers, from what I've read, which doesn't sound, you know, optimal for the continued well-being of the town. But other than that…"

"Oh, great," Bree mumbles. " _Pixies_. Fucking yay."

"How do we kill them?" Ella asks, cutting straight to the point.

Alec straightens up. "Now, hold on," he starts with a frown. "These are living creatures. You can't just _kill_ them."

Ella ignores him. "Peter?" she prompts.

Alec sighs, aggrieved.

Peter's face scrunches up. "Uh, well, I don't know if you can technically consider them living? Because, like, they aren't born or anything? They just kind of…divide to reproduce based on how much energy they've, uh, consumed. So…I mean, if we don't do anything, we're looking at an infestation of epic biblical proportions. That said, however, I have no idea how to get rid of them. The books mostly just talk about hunkering down until the migration moves on."

"Not an option," Anthony says firmly.

"We could always try to kill them with fire," Peter suggest, jerking his chin to Ella. "That's doable, right?"

Ella crosses her arms over her chest. "And if fire doesn't work?"

Peter pauses.

Bree pops her gum again. "More fire."

Ella and Anthony exchange a glance - and she knows by the resonance of their shared lifeline that they're on the same wavelength. They might not know how to kill the pixies, but at least they know what they are and how they operate. The matter of extermination is just going to have to be something that they figure out as they go.

But this is good. As they set up paired patrol schedules for the next few days and talk in low tones about the kind of protocol that Mayor Newton needs to instate to keep people out of the woods until this is all over, Ella's mind settles into a placid state of awareness.

They're as ready as they will ever be.

* * *

 **A/N: If you guessed PIXIES back when Alice had the Itsy Bitsy Sprightstar interlude, then my hats off to you. I'm using a kind of obscure old legend about pixies and tailoring it to fit my needs - so their reproduction and the grain fields and their role in this world are completely original, but the going after farm animals is definitely not. Also, flying cockroaches are _terrifying_ and _so wrong_ and it's just that kind of EEK OH SHIT feeling that I want to convey with how not good this is for Charmstone. Do you feel bad about killing a bug? I don't - it's me or it and I choose me 100% of the time.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	152. part 10: 9: screw you too, tinkerbell

**nine**

 **screw you too, tinkerbell**

* * *

Ella is grudgingly flipping through the lore on pixies that Peter has scrounged up and reluctantly supplying Bree with her opinion on the next outlandish shade of dye the werewolf is contemplating - "No, Bree, I really don't think taxi cab yellow is a good idea" - when she feels it, that moth-light touch on the wards layered around the town that heralds the arrival of her latest enemy. Jane is in the middle of attempting to persuade Bree to try a more sensible shade, like auburn, as she fusses with the paper bags behind _The Magic Shop's_ counter. Bree argues that auburn isn't very punk. But when Ella abruptly stands to attention, Jane gasps and Bree falls silent.

Ella doesn't hesitate to drop the book on the glass countertop, half her mind already _someplace else_ as she snags Bree's wrist and _pops_ right out of the shop and to the northern border of the town. Bree lands in a crouch, grumbling about how much Ella's preferred mode of transportation _sucks_. Ella ignores her partner for the day, tugging on her bond with Raven even as she searches for the pixies, head tilted back as she scans the noon-day sky beyond the thicket of trees.

 _I will be with you shortly,_ Raven intones and Ella senses the sudden veer in the blackbird's course, like for a second _she_ is the one flying, gliding on air just below the clouds.

The moth-like touch on the wards comes again, slightly further away, like the pixies are teasing the wards - darting in and out, like a test. The world around Ella shifts in the blink of an eye, air displaced in her ears as she reappears fifty feet away from Bree, confident that Bree will figure out a way to keep up. Bree can't shift into a full wolf, not being an alpha like Anthony, but she is faster than Peter and a good partner for Ella in general. Still, Ella can just barely make out Bree's muffled curse as she realizes Ella is already in pursuit.

Ella tunes it out.

She can't spare a thought for anything except the creature staring down at her from the break between tree branches.

Aside from being small, the pixie doesn't look anything like what she imagined. It is hairless and wingless, maybe a foot tall with spindly, oddly contorted limbs, and mottled earth-toned skin stretched over its skeletal body, with a dusting of honest-to-Christ _moss_ dusted over its shoulders and creeping down its ribs and legs. It has two bulbous eyes, which are a stomach-churning familiar sickly yellow-green, and a gaping maw of a mouth filled with two rows of needle-like stone colored teeth.

The pixie grins at her - or at least, its mouth stretches to show off all of its teeth - and darts right toward her, covering the space between them like some kind of deranged hummingbird -

Ella twists on her heel - and _pops_ ten feet away, reappearing behind the pixie. She watches with a bated weariness as the pixie halts six feet from the ground and lurches into a spin until it is staring at her with bulging eyes and a faint, high-pitched snarl.

She raises a brow at it, a flicker of shiver-sheen fire appearing in her upturned palm.

The pixie screams at her and charges -

Ella throws the fireball -

And the pixie easily dodges it, which given its speed, she was _kind of_ expecting.

She doesn't expect how much _angrier_ the damn thing becomes after dodging the fire, though, as if it's actually been threatened. Even as she is throwing herself into another short-distance teleport, this time landing back where she started, she is mentally marking _fire_ as something that the pixie obviously doesn't appreciate. Whether that's because its _her_ magic fire or because its fire in general doesn't really matter.

 _Fire works_ , she says to Raven.

 _Noted_.

The pixie doesn't seem very smart, as it is just as surprised as before when Ella reappears behind it. But instead of coming at her again, it screeches and flies away, back through the ward out of Charmstone.

Ella doesn't let her guard down. No way was it that easy.

And she's right, because by the time Bree is filled in and Raven is circling just above the trees, there's another moth-like flutter against the wards at least a quarter mile away. "How many?" Ella asks to Raven, counting on Raven's elevated position to give them an edge so they can make some kind of plan.

" _I cannot say_ ," Raven admits after a beat. _"Less than five. Perhaps they are scouts_."

"That's very helpful," Ella mutters and Raven clicks her beak, flapping her wings to gain altitude and disappearing from view.

"Seriously," Bree interjects with a baffled stare directed toward Raven's exit. "You look like you've got some screws loose, talking to a bird and all."

Ella rolls her eyes. "Maybe I do. I'm out here with you and you've spent the last three minutes sniffing the air with all the subtly as a Yeti."

"Excuse _you_ , but that is fine werewolf form that you just witnessed."

"I don't see Tony doing that," Ella is quick to counter.

Bree's eyes gleam with unholy glee. "Oh, _Tony_ , is it?"

"Now really isn't the time," Ella reminds her with a sigh.

"Yeah, whatever," Bree says unrepentantly. "But, you know, I take credit for the two of you making heart-eyes at each other. I totally introduced you."

"You mean that time when you failed at buying a birthday present and then invited yourself and everyone else to crash his group thing?"

"Yes!"

Ella smirks. "That wasn't the first time we met."

"Wait, what?" Bree sputters. "You - what do you mean? _Ella_."

Ella doesn't answer, but she does grab Bree's elbow and teleport them within sight of the invading pixies. Each one is as alien and ugly as the one Ella personally encountered; there is very little variation in the way they appear, though some are practically covered in moss and some are comparatively naked, and the shades of their splotchy skin range from limestone to cherry tree bark. Strange creatures, for sure.

She expects Bree to comment about how creepy the chattering, flying creatures are - but instead, Bree lets out a low sound of surprise. "Oh, _wow_ ," she says in awe, thankfully not loud enough that the pixies have noticed them. "They're _so pretty_."

Ella's head snaps to the side. " _What_?" she asks with unconcealed incredulity.

"We can't kill them," Bree says decisively. "We'd definitely go to hell for killing something so damn cute. I want to adopt one."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Ella demands. " _Look_ at them!"

"I am!"

"They're hideous!"

Bree gapes in shock, rearing away from Ella with a scrunched face. "Uh, _no_ , they're itty bitty little miracles is what they are. Like fucking China dolls, okay? You take back those blasphemous words right now."

"What the fuck?" Ella sighs. "How are we not seeing the same thing?"

 _If I may_ , Raven cuts in. _It's possible that these pixies have some ability to use a glamor and that you, being a magician, are able to see their true appearances_.

 _Wonderful_ , Ella thinks with some disgruntlement. Although, considering the way Bree suddenly wasn't so gung-ho to _kill them with fire_ , she can also guess that the glamor is somehow also able to make the pixies essentially untouchable - too cute to kill, so that makes it easier for them to hunt. What a shitty twist on camouflage.

But at least Ella isn't susceptible. Total win.

"Don't stop me," she says to Bree, right before she _pops_ just beneath the pixies and instantly garners their attention, throwing up a ward behind herself to prevent Bree from following. She will never admit to being somewhat intimidated by the sudden chorus of screeches emitting from those over-wide mouths. Instead, Ella calls fire into her hands, funneling magic into her palms until two massive silver-red balls of flame are dancing into the air.

Fire is easy to manipulate, maybe because it spreads to easily and feeds off of oxygen - but even for as easy as it is to start and shape and for as destructive as it can be, Ella feels a certain resonance with it. She is a flame, in a way.

Like she thought before, the pixies aren't very bright. With how much they multiply, she figures they don't _need_ to be smart because sheer numbers is what makes them really dangerous. Out of the four pixies, two of them turn to ash by trying to fly through the balls of fire she has circling in the air. The other two seem to get a clue and instead of being defensive, Ella creates a thin dome of fire over her head, untouched by the heat as she goes on the offensive. She can see so easily through her magic that she immediately notices when a third pixie appears - the first one she saw, judging by the moss pattern.

She thinks that pixie might be the boss, or something, because it seems to screech at the other two and they fly off beyond the wards.

"And then there was one," she says under her breath, slowly stretching the dome of fire down to her feet, thinning the flame until it's just licks and embers separating her from the pixie.

It shrieks at her with that too-toothy grin and begins doing some kind of feinting toward Ella, testing the thin barrier between them. It wails each time it burns its fingers, but it doesn't go away and she isn't sure why. She wouldn't think the dumb things were capable of fixating on anything, but this pixie is proving her wrong. Staring down one is a lot different than a group of them and Ella finds herself a bit curious.

Can it sense her magic? Do they _feed_ on magic, too? She'll have to ask Peter.

After a dozen tries of testing the thin fiery dome, the pixie seems to grow frustrated and screeches loudly at her, a sound something akin to glass grating on a chalkboard.

"It's singing for you!" Bree declares in the distance. "How pretty!"

"Your hearing needs to be checked," Ella calls back. "This thing sounds like a fucking garbage disposal!"

The pixie seems to take offense at that and screeches even louder - if possible - so much so that her ears are ringing as it kicks its feet through the fire in a fit of anger. And then it screams, spitting and glaring at her, but still not leaving.

"Screw you too, Tinkerbell," Ella mutters.

She's had enough time to study the things and the other pixies don't seem to be coming back and while she could easily keep up the fire barrier for a few days, Ella has had enough of all the noise. Plus, she really needs to call a meeting and discuss the stuff she suspects isn't in the books Peter found and figure out a way to stop the pixies from using their glamor because above all else, Bree's insistence that the creatures are _pretty_ is super annoying.

Ella waves her fingers with a slant to her mouth and in the blink of an eye, the dome around her curls in reverse, forming a tight ball around the pixie that shrinks in on itself, effectively turning the pixie to ash.

Ella sighs pensively, turning her head toward the wards around Charmstone.

Fire works. But she can't cover the whole town in _fire_ , can she?

No, people would panic and then Ella would have to deal with Mayor Newton herself instead of foisting Anthony off on him and that definitely seems like more trouble than it's worth. However, she does make a quick pitstop to the nearest ley line convergence, kneeling in the grass with her hands pressed to stone as she does an alteration on the wards around Charmstone - a tuck here and a shift of energy there, and Ella pulls away from the land, reasonably sure that the next time a pixie tries to cross the wards, it will be incinerated on the spot.

It's a temporary fix and it's imperfect - but for now, it buys the time they'll need to make a real game plan.

* * *

 **A/N: Pixies using a glamor is actually super old lore; some lore also says that pixies had to use wands, but screw that. Also, the spelling of _glamor_ is American, while again the UK is _glamour_ , along with a bunch of other words, like _labor_ and _labour_. The more you know, man. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	153. part 10: 10: the sketch artist

**ten**

 **the sketch artist**

* * *

Somehow, _The Magic Shop_ seems to have become _the place_ for the gang to congregate, even when there isn't a group huddle going on. Sometime this morning, Alec had meandered over from the bed and breakfast and never left, chatting in low tones with Jane between the slow trickle of customers. And not five minutes ago, Riley, Peter, and Bree had all trailed inside and sprawled on the floor between the two bookshelves in the middle of the shop. Leaning on the glass counter with a sketchbook beneath her hands, Ella eyes the candy-apple red bag Bree carried inside with a muted trepidation with quickly shifts into resignation once she catches the continuation of the conversation Bree is holding with her twin and his boyfriend.

"- is a legitimate question!" Peter concludes with a wiggle of his brows. "So, what happens to your fur - your pelt? - when you dye your human hair? Like, are we going to be seeing a green wolf in the forest, or what?"

"Okay, _first off_ , it isn't green dye, it's _seagreen_ ," Bree huffs.

"And second, she'll never be able to answer that question," Riley finishes drolly.

"Shut up, Riley," Bree grumbles.

"Wait, why not?" Peter asks.

"Bree isn't motivated for it. She could do a full shift if she wanted to, being a born wolf, but she's lazy," Riley drawls.

"Asshole," Bree mutters.

"Honest," Riley counters.

"Maybe a little too honest."

"No such thing."

From the counter, Ella sighs sharply, slapping charcoal down onto glass and turning a shrewd stare to the group on the floor - pointedly ignoring the way Alec mirrors her posture on the other side of the counter and the way Jane falls silent, both of them watching her like she's a bomb about to go off. "As riveting as that conversation is, if you're here, you might as well focus on the real priority," Ella says with a hike of her brow. "Or you can keep loitering and I'll leave you all to the mercy of the pixies."

She even kind of means it. Somewhat.

Peter whistles. "Stone cold."

Ella doesn't dignify that with a response, not even the non-verbal kind. Instead, she turns back to the depiction of the pixies she's been working on all day, running a critical eye over the photorealistic rendering. She's internally debating on adding color - probably, just for the sake of accuracy - when Bree props her elbows on the counter in front of the register, leans over to look at the sketch, and then grimaces.

"Okay, it didn't look like that," Bree says firmly.

"Yes, it did."

"Dude, _no_." Bree frowns at Ella and shakes her head.

Ella rolls her eyes and sighs. "You only saw its glamor. Your opinion doesn't count. This is what they _really_ look like."

"Even the teeth?"

"Yes," Ella says emphatically.

Bree groans.

Peter, being Peter, studies the sketch with his nose almost level with the paper. "Looks menacing," he decides after a moment.

"Not really," Bree mumbles under her breath.

Ella narrows her eyes in silent warning and Bree turns away. "They were nasty," Ella says to Peter. "And something about the glamor they use makes it hard to kill them, almost like the glamor puts people under thrall, or something. It was weird."

"But you could see through it? Because that wasn't in any of the books I read, I swear," Peter says with uncharacteristic seriousness.

Ella shrugs, because she can't really explain it, other than she's banking on the fact that she's a magician. Alec would probably be able to see through the glamor, too.

Speaking of Alec, he's staring off to the side pensively, jaw set in a stubborn angle. "An evolutionary defense mechanism," he murmurs, sounding _approving_ of the damn glamor that caused such confusion the day before.

Ella glares at him. "Careful with that piety, Alec. Remember that these things have been killing indiscriminately and they seem to be gunning for this town next."

Jane makes a small noise of distress and Peter, wise to her moods, coughs as he wanders back to Riley, as if taking cover. Bree blinks and follows suit, apparently scenting the strained mood in the air. Smart.

Alec shifts at the reminder, brow knit together, and Jane decides then to speak up, maybe trying to soothe the tension. "So, what are you going to do?"

Ella presses her lips together. She's been thinking about it, had even kept Anthony up half the night trying to work out a course of action that would make sense. He'd been rightfully concerned about the influence of the glamor, not liking the distinct disadvantage something with that much of a sway could cause. "Get rid of the glamor," Ella states, reiterating all the reasons she and Anthony had come up with the night before. It was the best plan.

"Can you do that?"

She shrugs. "Probably." Ella directs a pointed stare to Alec. "Don't suppose you know a helpful spell I can adapt? No?" she asks when he remains silent. Ella sighs and reaches under the counter, plucking out a stack of books she'd taken from private storage in the attic. She shivers at touching the leather and wood binding of the books, the dark swath of magic slick like oil against her skin, and places them on top of the sketch.

The books instantly draw Peter's attention - he recognizes them. "Are those…?"

"Yes," Ella answers shortly. "Hopefully something in these will help. But I'll do the research myself, Peter."

"What are those?" Alec asks quietly and the caution in his voice at the sense of dark magic emanating from the books makes Ella look up at him with her lips pressed together. She wonders how the dark magic feels to him - because for her, being neutral, the dark magic is mildly uncomfortable, but she would bet Alec's reaction is at least twice as bad. He doesn't make any move to touch them and he is careful to keep his eyes away from them; he looks pale from the exposure, even from three feet away.

Ella gathers the books and sketchbook against her chest, casually taking a step back and watching as the color returns to Alec's face. Interesting. "Belonged to the hag that used to own the shop. I kept a few of her less atrociously evil books, but even these are a little questionable," she answers. Then she tilts her lips into a sardonic grin. "Don't worry, I won't offend your delicate sensibilities by asking you to read it."

Alec scowls, ill at ease and a bit offended by her implication.

She doesn't stick around to listen to whatever self-righteous, light magic propaganda he will inevitably spout, though. She has reading to do and a spell to find and a town to save. She doesn't have time for anything else.

* * *

 **A/N: So, for clarification, werewolves fall into two categories; bitten wolves, who can do a partial shift with the claws and teeth like Peter, and born wolves, who can _learn_ how to do a full shift with a lot of effort or who _have_ to learn how to do a full shift to become an alpha wolf as part of the alpha trials. Apologies if that wasn't clear before - I try to present information in this story through context and sometimes things get lost in the shuffle. Anyway, to answer Peter's question, a werewolf who dyes her hair like Bree and shifted into a full wolf _would_ probably carry at least some of the dyed color over in the shift. I think that's hilarious - imagine a rainbow timber wolf. Hilarious.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	154. part 10: 11: stop the noise in my head

**eleven**

 **stop the noise in my head**

* * *

The guilt is a thing with a life of its own.

Ella can feel the pixies in the night, dozens swarming around the Charmstone wards and turning to ash beneath the magic she has cast before, quite suddenly, the pixies seem to learn from the fall of their brethren and cease trying to enter the town.

The next morning and the day after that are brutal - through Lillian's contacts at the police department, Ella learns of the death that has happened within the Adirondack forest around the town. It takes very little to persuade Jasper to pull up the specific information. Park rangers and police in the surrounding towns are inundated with dead bodies, or rather _parts_ of dead bodies of the hikers and campers that frequent the area. Dead because they were drawn to the majestic scenery of Lake Placid and upstate New York; dead because they were ignorant of the dangers the land possesses; dead because Ella has not been savvy enough or fast enough.

Men, women, children - she considers their blood to be on her hands and it weighs on her. And beneath the guilt is anger, heady and tumultuous and _burning_ in her veins as she listens to Jasper and Peter and Anthony talk clinically about the carnage. A couple dozen found dead in a three-square mile circle around Charmstone, bodies torn and pulled apart and all done within the same night. It has left the authorities baffled.

Ella listens to it all, words echoing around her like she's in a tunnel. She hasn't been sleeping the past few nights, first too caught up in flipping through the hag's old books locked down in the workshop and then too disturbed by the deaths she could have - should have - prevented to even _think_ of resting. The sleeplessness and prolonged exposure to the unmitigated darkness of the spells and rituals she is considering has left her in a state of near-numbness.

A part of her doesn't feel attached to her body - and another part is anchored to bitter rage, more determined to _end this_ than before.

Alice stares at her, shadows beneath haunted gimlet eyes and a pallid complexion, her lips indented with impressions of her teeth, raw and chapped. Ella can only imagine what Alice is hearing, what she is able to sense, and deduces that Alice has been holding in the wail of the banshee trapped inside. Alice is probably choking on guilt, too.

She doesn't know which of them has it worse. She doesn't think it matters.

Anthony - bless him - has some indeterminable innate ability to cut down to the quick of a situation and seeming to sense that Ella is more than a little preoccupied, he takes the reins of leadership. A meeting with the town council is organized and he speaks, showing off all the data that has been collated as Ella stands ghost-still behind him. She is locked in cyclical conversation with Raven, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of spells; the options she discards are not pushed aside for any other reason than being useless. There are spells she thinks of adapting that more than skirt the edge of black magic, but she has never feared the dark.

Ella was raised in the dark. She has stared into her own abyss, confronted her own demons, and come back each time - cracked, but not shattered beyond repair. Flirting with dark magic, _using it_ for the right reasons is not a task she will shy away from.

She can't, not when she sees what hesitation and ill-preparedness has wrought. This thing with the pixies is _big_ , sure to bring national attention for all the wrong reasons and she doesn't know where The Coterie is or what they are doing to help with this - but she doesn't plan to wait for them.

Because maybe The Coterie is _already_ doing something. Peter and Jasper and Lillian keep combing news organizations for any sign that the mysterious deaths in New York have made a blip on any radar, and they continue to come up blank. The Coterie keeps the supernatural world a secret. It's becoming more and more obvious that they do this by censoring news, by preventing incidents such as this from discovery.

It's all about feasibility.

Still, once Anthony has left the town council shaken with the full impact of the pixies and all that their group is collectively doing, Ella stands as a stark shadow at his elbow. "Will you believe us now?" she wonders hollowly, meeting Elisabeth Masen's gaze for a fleeting moment and finding that she is not vindicated by the horror she sees staring back at her.

She doesn't wait for an answer, allowing the world to shift with a _pop_ beneath her feet until she is back in the basement beneath the shop, tracing a finger down the brittle pages of a book left open on the workbench. _This is the one_ , she decides, broadcasting the thought to Raven.

Caught beneath the clouds to monitor the wards, her familiar takes a moment before responding bleakly. _If you think it best_.

Ella thinks it the most useful - she can pair pieces of this spell, the darkest shades of blood magic, with a helpful piece of lore in one of Peter's library books. All she will need is a dagger, the witching hour, and a ribbon.

But as much as it pains her, Ella isn't dumb enough to attempt the cannibalized spell now. It would be a monumental mistake to put that much lifeblood and power into magic when she is wavering on her feet, throat parched and stomach cramping from hunger. She can't save anyone like this and that reminder is one hell of an impulse check.

Still, there is only one place where she thinks she might find peace and rest, something which she has been denying herself, and Ella soon appears in Anthony's dorm room. Howell Hall is mostly empty and it will be for another week until the start fall semester - Anthony's last, unless he opts for the Master's degree she knows he's been thinking about.

The quiet of the dorm, absent of Anthony's measured breathing and the turn of pages in a book, feels unnatural. He isn't so far, though; he knows her well enough to guess that she will seek him out eventually and through their melded lifeline, she can feel her wolf coming closer.

Mechanically, Ella helps herself to the miniature refrigerator Anthony has wedged between desk and bookshelf, gulping down a bottle of water and forcing herself to swallow down one of the snack packages of meat, cheese, and almonds. She feels a flare of fondness that Anthony even has something like that in his dorm - a well-balanced assortment of snack foods, high on protein and dairy to accommodate his rather large appetite.

Ella is sipping on a second bottle of water when Anthony shoulders into his dorm room. "Thought I'd find you here," he says as he locks the door and kicks off his shoes. He sits down beside her on the bed and sighs deeply, a perturbed tension in his brow as he brings his hand up to stroke his thumb over her cheek. "You need to sleep."

"I know."

Anthony studies her for a moment. "You found a way," he realizes, a blunt sort of delivery indicated that he never doubted her - not for a second.

She envies his confidence and leans into his hand. "It should work," she tells him, soft and slow. "The magic isn't pretty and if I do it right, it will be a slaughter. Dark magic is…selfish. Unbalanced. I…" Ella hesitates, but she doesn't drop her gaze. This is her soulmate and she is learning to trust him with every part of herself, even the parts which shame her. "It is so easy for me to kill. Too easy."

At the whispered confession, he cups her face in both hands, warm palms burning into her skin. "You always have a reason," he says in her defense.

"I'm staining my soul," she argues, a hitch in her throat as she reveals this weak thought - this thing that she's been trying to deny.

Anthony doesn't relent. "Then so am I," he declares firmly. "I've killed, too. It is part of this life, part of the world we share, and it isn't glorious and maybe it isn't right - but we do the best we can. We aren't just killers, Ella. We're protectors. We do what others can't."

She crumples against him, tears brimming in her eyes and spilling over onto his shoulder, and Anthony holds her close, brining her to rest in his lap as the build up of the stress finally breaks. For now, she can bank her anger and do this. It isn't the first time she's cried on him and it won't be the last. But this time is better because now he can really hold her, stroke down her back and press tender kisses to her head and she can lose herself in his scent and his warmth.

She's never had anything like that - and the foreign feeling dries her tears more quickly than she expects.

"You stop the noise in my head," she murmurs against his throat, stubble scratching against her lips.

Anthony pulls back, silent as steady with a chaste kiss to her lips.

Ella's arms twine around his neck, a fissure of heat zipping down her spine - and the kiss turns into something else. Something deeper and darker and _more_. Her heart is thundering, a switch flipped between her emotions that has her driving her chest against his in a bid to be even closer. She shifts on his lap, knees falling to either side of his hips as she chases his mouth, making demands that he meets ardently.

Maybe it isn't wise. Maybe it isn't the best way to seek comfort, but Ella isn't really thinking. She's _feeling_ \- and her feelings at the moment are all screaming for his taste beneath her tongue and his touch learning the curve of her spine, the shape of her hips. Her hands are tangled in his riotous hair, tiny breaths leaving her lungs as his teeth nip at her jaw. He suckles a mark below her ear, another at the base of her neck after stretching the collar of her shirt away from her skin in a way that is now more familiar than not.

Her shirt falls to the floor and what follows is a hasty mimicry of the careful exploring they have done late in the night - hot hands testing the weight of her breast, the puckering response of her nipple, the way she shivers as his tongue traces the line of her collarbone. Though even as her chest heaves, she knows it isn't enough. Ella captures his mouth again, teeth clacking as her hands fumble at the button and zipper of her jeans.

She's sorely mistaken if she thought a heated kiss would be enough to distract Anthony from this newest development. He pulls away, pupils dilated and mouth red, his hands on her breasts skimming around the back of her ribs as his gaze falls. For a moment, she thinks he might refuse or something because the way he is looking at the simple black cotton of her underwear, revealed from the opening of her jeans, doesn't exactly inspire confidence.

His hands move again, thumbs pressing into her hip bones. "Are you sure?"

Ella swallows, trying to think beyond the lust coursing through her blood, and nods. "Please, Tony."

He shudders, a rasp of a growl trapped in his chest as he licks into her mouth with biting kisses and a surge of passion that has her digging her nails into the top of his shoulders and shifting impatiently in his lap.

The first touch is light, a fleeting test of his palm pressing against her over her jeans. A moment passes and when the kissing continues, then the second touch comes, more firm, the heel of his hand rolling beneath her pubic bone - she cants into his hand and tugs on his lip.

She has chosen this moment. She's in control. She _wants_ his touch.

Anthony gets the silent message - and soon enough, his fingers have delved underneath her panties, cleverly sketching out her slickness. The angle is odd because her jeans are still on and he doesn't have a lot of leverage, but the exploration is no less thorough. He quickly learns exactly what makes her gasp into his mouth and what makes her shiver. It's only when he has finally tucked one finger inside that she remembers she has magic, and the rest of her clothing vanishes with a shaky thought.

She didn't know it could be like this.

Anthony is panting against her mouth, their foreheads pressed together as their eyes lock - and it's so intense, the way he never blinks, the way he watches her as a second finger eases inside. "That's it," he murmurs as he sets up a rhythm that has her eyes fluttering, mouth dropping open. "God, you're so beautiful. Perfect…"

Ella is drowning in sensation - the physical pleasure building as he crooks his fingers, dragging against spongy tissue that makes her throb, his thumb flicking slowly back and forth over her clit - as well as the connection between their souls, something more intimate than anything that is happening to her body. She could get lost in this. She wants to get lost in it.

Ella can feel herself fluttering around his fingers, skin prickling with heat as she cries out his name, her nails drawing blood down the nape of his neck and the top of his chest as he answers with a low growl - and then there is the climax, drawn out and spine-tingling and leaving her with a hazy sense of satisfaction. They don't sleep until Anthony feels the same, his seed still warm on her hand as exhaustion finally takes her over the edge of slumber.

The noise in her head - the anger, the guilt, the war between light and dark and right and wrong - fall silent.

* * *

 **A/N: You know, I actually have something of a challenging time writing these moments between these two - like, they just feel _private_ and I feel like I'm intruding, strangely enough. Anyway. Ella is courting darkness and orgasms! How fun!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	155. part 10: 12: give 'em blood

**twelve**

 **give 'em blood**

* * *

Even as she formulates a strategy, Ella doesn't tell anyone about the specifics of her plan - rightfully suspecting that if anyone knew what she was planning, then someone would try to stop her. Alec would protest and Carlisle wouldn't approve and Black, if he could be found, would stare at her with those flat eyes. It's bad enough that Anthony can tell that she isn't being exactly forthcoming, but he at least accepts it for what it is.

She is doing what has to be done.

The thing is that the spell she has settled on, the one that will work the best with the least risk to everyone else, is _dark_ \- so much so that she isn't sure why it was tucked away in a book filled with relatively neutral magic. The spell is an aberration. It goes against the grain of the natural order. In magic, there is always a price that must be paid and usually that price is the expenditure of energy, or some other kind of trade-off and Ella is familiar with that. She's even lax about magical prices because of how much sheer power she has at her disposal - she's more than a little flippant about using magic without care to the cost, because the cost for her and any other magician is negligible. If she wants to cast a spell, she puts in part of her own magical energy, or if the spell is larger, she borrows from the feedback flow of the ley lines she is tied to, which are just an extension of her magic at this point.

But dark magic is selfish - deliberately selfish, so much more than Ella's casual use. Dark magic takes; it steals; and because dark magic casters siphon from natural magic energies instead of using their own, there is always a deficit in the magical cost. And that's all _on top_ of the morally bankrupt nature of dark magic.

Ella has adapted the spell as best she can to fit the situation, but there isn't any denying that in spite of the fact that she plans to use her own magic to power the spell, the results will be dark in nature. Maybe darker than taking a life. Maybe not.

She is doing the right thing, she knows that, but that knowledge does nothing to detract from the shame that settles in the back of her mind as she prepares. The moon is high beyond the clouds, a cool dampness to the air leftover from earlier rains, and the sharp blades she tucks against her skin sap at her body heat. She meets at her reflection in the mirror as she braids half her hair away from her face, firming her jaw in determination.

She's been overthinking this, letting other people get into her head and make her second-guess her instincts. Ella has always relished her brazen qualities, but she's been letting them wither away because of self-doubt. She knows who she is and what she's about.

A little dark magic is more than worth the price of getting rid of those goddamn pixies. Fuck it.

The plan, like most of hers, is a gamble that relies on blunt force - but this time, there are precautions in place and a certain amount of trickery that she didn't know herself capable of. The idea is for Ella to act as bait and for the others to act as an insurance policy for the town. The Scooby Gang has gathered in the town meeting hall with the town council and a few dozen supernatural volunteers who have already been briefed on how to take pixies out. Pixies are fast, but slow to catch on; there may be a lot of them, but they'll all make the same mistake at least a few times.

Jasper has hacked into the electric grid of the town and as the clock rounds out to midnight, right on cue he hits a key on his computer and plunges Charmstone into darkness. Pixies like bright things, drawn to heat and light like moths, and Ella plans to be the only thing they'll see. The blackout will help with that.

Alice catches her wrist before Ella can teleport into place, her lips pressed into a white line. "Give them hell," she says softly.

Ella smirks. "I plan to give 'em blood."

She looks at Alec right after she speaks, waiting for his token protest, but finds only impassiveness staring back at her. Ella lifts her chin; he returns the acknowledgement. She wonders what that _means_ for when this is all over.

And then she _pops_ to the edge of the eastern town border, taking a few steady breaths as she listens to Raven's birds eye reporting that Peter and Bree and a handful of werewolves from the larger Masen pack are fanning out to the border of the wards that have been marked. A few ghouls and trolls and a single fae spread out around heavily human-oriented neighborhoods; Benji and Seth, who has mostly completed his training, head out to cover the hospital with a trio of hedge-witches. Emet is staying with the more defenseless members of the gang, intent on guarding Lillian, Riley, Alice, and Jane until everything is safe. They are all an insurance policy she doesn't hope to need, but it's better to have them in place should she fail.

She doesn't plan to fail.

Ella grips a knife in her right hand and strokes the tip of the blade firmly over her left palm, carving in a single sigil that reeks of darkness. With the blood dripping freely down her wrist, Ella wads up a white ribbon to absorb the blood and then transfers the knife to her other hand, repeating the same process of carving the sigil - but this time, she doesn't place the last line, saving the finish for when she is ready to activate her spell.

She tries - and fails - not to think of the hag doing the same thing to her little under a year ago. At least this time, Ella has a choice. Mutilation, as she well knows, is different from desecration. Barely.

Ella senses long before he emerges from the trees on four powerful paws, verdant eyes glinting with gold. She turns her head just enough to see Anthony and Elisabeth Masen, both fully shifted into sleekly muscled timber wolves, fall into place on either side of her, though Anthony is close enough that she feels the heat of his breath against her hip.

"Everyone is in place," she tells them.

Elisabeth chuffs, a non-verbal signal that she is ready for the plan they have all agreed on.

Ella glances down at Anthony. "Stay behind the ward," she reminds him seriously. "Don't do anything stupid."

His head butts against her thigh gently, but she can _feel_ the anxious tension coursing through him and she knows that this is going to be yet another time when Anthony is helpless but to watch Ella do something that will endanger her life. It seems like he's always watching her gamble, but she is selfishly glad that she isn't in his place. She's sure her preferred methods of coping would be decidedly lacking in dealing with that kind of stress.

Her hand clenches around the ribbon as she steps outside of the protective warding around Charmstone - modified earlier in the day for her purposes and tingling hotly against her skin as she passes through. Two more steps forward, and then she crouches down, spreading out the ribbon on the damp earth, now stained red with her blood and soaked so hardly any white satin can be seen.

Ella exhales.

And then she reaches out for the ebb of magic flowing through the land, weaker outside of town proper but still more than present, and she forces that magic to filter into the ribbon - creating a beacon, a trap, a bait specially designed for the pixies. It's _weird_ not primarily using her magic to charge a spell. Not bad, but weird. It feels like cheating, almost. A short cut.

Ella eases away from the ribbon on the ground, continuing to concentrate on the beacon spell even as she feels the flare of the wards reacting to her hovering presence. She stops, staying outside of the wards.

And she waits.

 _Incoming_ , Raven says after a few minutes. _Moving very quickly_.

Raven isn't exaggerating; for wingless creatures, the spindly pixies move remarkably fast, easily 30 or 40 miles an hour, if not quicker. More alarming though is how _many_ there are. Ella feels her heart in her throat as she registers the hoard shifting between the dark clouds and the heavy canopies. Like, she _guessed_ that there would be a few dozen and Alice's whispers had estimated at upward of 70 - but Ella is easily staring down a hundred or more of the bloodthirsty fuckers.

She's suddenly very grateful for the contingencies they have made.

Steeling herself, Ella maintains the beacon spell, unflinching as the pixies come closer, hissing and flitting in curiosity and _hunger_. She doesn't allow her focus to falter, not even cringing away from one of the more vicious pixies that scratches at her face and pulls at her hair. She barely registers that Anthony growls on the other side of the ward.

She doesn't care about anything else but the beacon spell - waiting for the moment when just one pixie picks up the bloodied ribbon.

Ella drops the spell immediately, steadies her grip on the knife in her hand, and finishes the sigil on her right palm -

The dark spell is like needles against her skin, a single prick for each of the pixies now trapped by the blood magic she has infused to the ribbon. She can feel the way the blood spell spreads outward from that one pixie, taking advantage of the slight hive mind of the creatures until each one is under her thrall - until each of their minds _belong_ to Ella. It's thunder roiling in her body and pinching at her nerves. It's overwhelming and dizzying, suddenly tapping into so many ravenous minds, and though the pixies aren't precisely intelligent, she can tell that they are fighting against the blood magic.

Or at least tying to.

But Ella is stronger - the dark magic, the blood spell to control their minds, is stronger. She _owns_ the pixies. They are hers to do with as she pleases. And it's both exciting and nauseating, because Ella is still not using her own magic, she's still stealing from the world to power this spell, and she feels _strong_. Invincible. Deadly.

For a second, there is a very real possibility that she loses herself in the power. It would be so easy to tap into all this extra magic at her disposal and she wouldn't even need to drain her personal power to do anything she wants. She even has these stupid little creatures that repopulate so swiftly, like a never-ending supply of purely magic. She's euphoric with it, a manic grin spreading across her face as all the guilt and stress melts away. She is boundless and filled with power - free with it. She has no obligation but to herself and -

 _Focus_ , Raven reminds her sharply and Ella's spine snaps ram-rod straight, eyes peeled wide open as she's suddenly thrust back into awareness of herself.

She is more than just magic and power. She's human, too - and she has a task to complete.

Ella grits her teeth, pushing away the haze of euphoria from the dark magic threatening to creep over her mind again - pushing away the addictive care-free feeling with great prejudice. This is why dark magic is so dangerous. It's a trap, too good to be true, too hedonistic to not cannibalize the user.

Her newly-forged blood magic connection to the pixies is still prickling against her skin - and Ella takes a deliberate step backward, passing through the wards with a wince as the wards recognize that while she isn't a pixie, she _is_ connected to them. If it had been anyone else but Ella, who had personally manipulated the wards, they would have been incinerated on the spot.

But she is safe and the plan is going as well as she hoped.

The bloody sigils carved onto her palms burn like acid as she slams them against the wards - and at the same time as she summons the pixies, Ella also redirects the spells inlaid in the ward to congregate to her location -

Like magnets, the pixies crash into the wards and _burn_ , shrieking in sudden terror and unable to flee because of the blood magic. And she feels each one of their deaths, the ash caught in the blow-back of a hundred pixies all drawn inescapably into the fire resting under her hands - and each time one dies, her connection to their hive mind stabs behind her eyes -

The only thing that makes the pain worth it is the way Ella has adjusted the dark spell. Instead of the magic in the pixies being absorbed into _Ella_ , she forces it to disperse elsewhere - and since the caster won't take the magic the way the blood spell is designed, the magic has little choice but to scatter into the land and into the wards around Charmstone.

It almost makes up for the wrongness of stealing the land's magic to power the dark spell in the first place. Almost.

Very distantly, as all of this trickery is happening, Ella is aware that a few of the pixies escaped complete incineration by the virtue of missing the concentration of fire. Those few pixies are chased down by the werewolves and fall to teeth and claws while Ella deals with the fall-out of the larger spell.

She finds herself on her knees once the heat beneath her palms dies out, the blood on her skin dried to flakes beneath new scars and a fierce headache blossoming behind her eyes. She is gagging on stomach acid, dry-heaving onto the grass and gasping to catch her breath - trying and unable to find her equilibrium for several long, terrible moments.

And then the press of a familiar chest against her back, cradling her close as he kneels behind her. "It's over. You did so good, sweetheart," Anthony murmurs into her hair, arms firm around her as she recovers from the backlash.

It takes a while.

* * *

 **A/N: Hope that I adequately explained why this magic is dark compared to other magic Ella has done - especially the way using magic is priced, why blood magic is dubious at best, and why dark magic is "selfish". I also consider mind control to be a skill that is explicitly bad mo-jo, because like you can look at any instance of mind control in pop culture and see where it crosses a line. Classic example: Kilgrave in Jessica Jones is a villain who uses mind control while Professor X, on the other hand, is a telepath powerful enough to use mind control but he has ethics and so he doesn't or if he does it's in very dire circumstances. I mean, I personally feel that most everything in life is grey, but there are things that _always_ cross a line, regardless of era or culture or whatever. Magic is the same way; like, light magic users are pacifists and dark magic are straight-up megalomaniacs and neutral magic users are somewhere in between. **

**Whatever. I'm pretty sure this is the end of this arc - still deciding where to cap it! But interludes are probably next...**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	156. part 10: interlude

**interlude**

* * *

The afterimage is still burning against her retinas - a cascade of blistering fireworks paired with the stench of smoky ash which marks the death of the pixies - as she sits back on her haunches. The forest is mostly quiet now that the threat has been dealt with, save for the distant whooping of young wolves sounding their delight. It had all been over very quickly and with no casualties on their side.

And now Elisabeth is seeing the aftermath that she thinks nobody else will be privy to - if fact, she would be almost certain that her presence has been forgotten, if not for the abnormally large raven perched on a low branch. It is unmistakably Ella Cullen's familiar watching her with sharp onyx eyes, as if daring Elisabeth to intrude on her mistress's privacy.

Yet Elisabeth cannot look away.

Never did she think she would see the day when her aloof son, so reserved and stalwart and brooding, would willingly step into the role of protector, or that he was capable of such heart-rending tenderness. The amount of warmth Anthony exudes as he kneels behind Ella, handling her as if she is made of glass, is in itself shocking to Elisabeth, who has truly ever known her adult child to be implacably serious.

That is not the case when it comes to Ella, it seems - and is that not a slap in the face for Elisabeth? Her son has _chosen_ this girl, this recalcitrant and truculent creature that Elisabeth cannot get a handle on. Sure, Elisabeth had offered Ella a seat at the metaphorical table once she had witnessed how quick the girl is on her feet, acknowledging that the breadth of Ella's power is a boon for the town. But Ella had not wanted to fall in line and that had chafed at Elisabeth, who relied on orderliness and tradition to keep the peace she has known all her life. And more than that, Ella's outright defiance has truly frightened Elisabeth, because it seems that calamity follows the girl wherever she goes.

Ella is a ripple in the water, an uncontrollable variable, and a unavoidable reminder that Elisabeth cannot stop the turn of time.

She didn't expect her son to be _attracted_ to these qualities - but perhaps she should have known. Anthony's defiance has certainly been more subtle, but he is just as strong-willed and in that she can't deny that their match is a good one.

Elisabeth has been wrong. If her brother were still alive, Marcus would poke fun at her hesitation to admit such a thing. And maybe that is also why Elisabeth bristles at Ella's nature - because it reminds her of her brother and his unerring pragmatism. The way Ella does not dither in responses to threats, the way she places such confidence in sources that are not strictly reliable, has made Elisabeth cringe in the past. Not only because the girl seems to operate entirely on gut instincts, but because Marcus had done the same in his oddly militant manner. They had all been safer for it, of course.

Marcus had never cried like Ella does, though.

Still wearing the pelt of her wolf, Elisabeth watches with a heavy heart as Ella breaks to pieces with her face hidden in Anthony's chest - as Ella allows Anthony to hold her together, his arms a tight band around a wisp of a girl, protecting her from the rest of the world.

The raven flits down from the tree and stares up at Elisabeth, almost like a challenge. _See?_ It seems to say, and Elisabeth can only dip her snout and turn her eyes away.

Elisabeth can admit that she's been threatened by Ella's perseverance and innate leadership. She can even admit that she's been bull-headed and untrusting and hypocritical, slow to act and slower to praise. She hadn't really seen Ella Cullen coming - but she should have.

She should have.

The half-full moon has finally hidden behind a cluster of dark clouds by the time the girl pulls herself together. Elisabeth won't try to pretend that she understands exactly what Ella had done to eliminate the pixies, but she can gather by the pallid tone beneath rich bronze complexion and the fine tremors of glass-clad hands that the magic had taken something out of the girl. It's impressive that Ella insists on walking under her own power out of the forest.

Elisabeth watches, her presence still forgotten, as her son shifts back into his stout wolf form and snags at the hem of Ella's shirt, pointedly leading the girl in the opposite direction. Ella follows, obedient and tired.

If Elisabeth had a mouth instead of a muzzle, she would have smiled at being witness to their dynamic. As it is, she tilts her head to the raven still watching her and huffs.

Message received.

* * *

 **A/N: Sometimes seeing is believing. I happen to know someone who takes a _fuck ton_ of convincing before they'll even entertain the idea of being wrong and she is also a total control freak, so it's like moving a mountain or an act of God to change her mind. Me? Hit me with a logical explanation, maybe some data to prove it if the situation calls for it, and I'm good. But I think that's been Elisabeth's thing - like, she unwittingly instigated change that she wasn't prepared for and we've just been seeing her try to exert her old authority that's been slowly usurped...And now, it's like one of those _ah-ha!_ lightbulb moments! **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	157. part 10: interlude interlude

**interlude**

* * *

As expected, _The Magic Shop_ is in a quiet state of chaos when Alec arrives to collect Jane for lunch - a venture that he is tentatively calling a date, at least in the relative privacy of his own mind. Akira can call him over-cautious all he likes; Alec simply respects Jane enough to take what she is willing to give and not push for more beyond that.

Jane is laughing, a bell-like peal of a sound, at Peter's antics as he follows Ella around the shop. It takes a moment for Alec to put any of it into a context that makes sense and even then, based on the oddly wan appearance of his _niece,_ he can gather that the few days between now and the resolution of the pixie issue hadn't been particularly restful.

" _Did I ever tell you you're my hero_?" Peter sings off-key with an exaggerated flutter of his eyelashes. It's painfully obvious that he's playing the fool in a bid to get some kind of reaction from Ella, but all she does is stare at him flatly. " _You're everything I wish I could be…"_

"Shut up, Peter," Ella says tiredly.

The werewolf hastens to comply, his aura dimming in time with the concern writ plainly across his face. "Shutting up, boss," he says quietly. Peter reaches around Ella and relieves her of the small box she has been puttering around with. "Here, let me take this, yeah? Actually - yeah, actually, I got all this inventory stuff, okay? I know where it goes and Janie will make sure I don't mess anything up. Why don't you go, like, get some coffee - I know that Alpha, My Alpha bought a can of that sludge brew you like best."

Alec has been around Ella enough to know that any other time, she would reply to Peter's well-meaning suggestion with a prickly quip and a stubborn jut to her jaw. But this time, she heaves a sigh, nods, and steps around Peter. When she catches sight of Alec, she does little more than raise her dark brows in silent greeting before rapping a single knuckle against the class counter and addressing Jane. "Didn't forget that you wanted to talk," she says lowly. "Come find me later."

"Sure, Ella." Jane smiles gently.

They all watch as Ella disappears upstairs.

Peter lets out a gust of a sigh, bright blue eyes wide as he sets the box down by his feet. "Fuck," he says emphatically.

Jane wrings her hands together. "Is she okay, do you think?"

Peter shrugs, rubbing a palm over his mouth. "I mean, yeah and not really, no? I've never really seen her like _this_ \- like, she's always _going_ , you know? Even after…some shit happened, like, a year ago, her preferred coping method was decidedly more…chaotic." Peter sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair in agitation. "But this? I don't know, man. Whatever she did to get rid of the pixies really fucked her up, I think."

 _You sensed the dark magic, did you not_? Akira wonders, a humid twitch between Alec's shoulder blades.

 _I did_ , Alec confirms. Because it was obvious to anyone with eyes that Ella is _drained_ , but for Alec, he can sense the magical exhaustion - and that's on top of the way the balance of her neutral magic seems to be at war, trying to find an equilibrium. He'd bet anything that whatever spell she found in those awful books almost seduced her, the same way Mordred was seduced all those years ago.

It says something about Ella that she'd resisted the potency of dark magic. It also says something about the state of her being that it is taking _days_ for her to relocate the inner-harmony.

Guilt twists at Alec and Akira shifts against his skin.

"What did she do to resolve the issue?" Alec wonders aloud, drawing Jane and Peter out of their quiet fretting for the girl in the loft upstairs.

Peter doesn't bother to mask his surprise at Alec's curiosity or his uncertainty, his vibrant orange aura tinged with marigold. "Not sure," he answers after a moment. "She didn't really talk about the plan but, like, _seeing_ it…even from a distance, it was like she made herself into a magnet? And, like, there was nothing left for anyone to deal with, but whatever kind of magic that was…it was some serious shit."

Alec will readily admit that he has never wanted to delve - even for the sake of knowing - into the various methods used by dark magic casters. However, with a father like Solomon who was devoted to learning _everything_ , there are things that have sunk deep into Alec's memory. And that, combined with the inherent knowledge that Akira possesses, like most familiars, he can only come to a few unsavory conclusions.

 _Self-sacrificing_ , is the conclusion that Akira comes to after Alec has connected the dots.

 _Noble_ , Alec decides a second later. Not quite a correction, but just a statement of fact, and one that prompts Alec to look at his only remaining blood relative in a new light. He has been hasty to judge her and the way she lives her life. It is a fault of his that he must own up to.

"Would you mind if I postpone our lunch?" Alec asks Jane, already moving toward the staircase.

Jane smiles sweetly. "That's perfectly fine. We'll do dinner instead."

Alec spares her a wide smile.

And Peter, once Alec is halfway up the stairs, says to Jane, "Whoa, are you two _dating_?"

He can just barely hear Jane's prim response. "Yes, we are….Hey, wait, the glasslights don't go there, Peter!"

Their voices fade once he has reached the top of the stairs, the product of a very gradual silencing spell that was cast with exceptional skill. Alec marvels at the exquisite control Ella has over her magic - broken shards of her magician's glass notwithstanding - as he knocks at the door to the loft. He can comfortably assume that Ella's magical training has been unconventional, to say the least, but all it means is that she is more open than Alec. Probably appropriate for the kind of magic that she wields.

Ella opens the door holding a mug of fragrant tea, the scent both herby and flowery and sweetened with honey. She frowns at him minutely, but steps away from the door to allow him entrance. "Thought you had a thing with Jane?"

Alec peers at her, more specifically at her battered aura and the cluster of painful red streaks centered around her head - new mental scars wrought by magic. "This is more important," he says plainly.

"Uh huh."

"Tell me about the magic you cast," he requests, arms folded behind his back.

Ella snorts indelicately. "Hard pass. I have enough fuckery going on up here," she says with a gesture to her head. "I don't really need your judgment on top of it."

"I'm not here to judge."

"That's all you do."

"And I've been wrong," he says firmly. "I've been unfair. You were right about my not knowing you or what you've been through. I want to change that. We are family…or we could be. And I think I can help you."

"I have a therapist for that," she tells him baldly, slumping down onto a kitchen chair. She lifts the mug. "I also have Carlisle plying me with magical tea and a lot of hugs. I have Anthony to keep away the nightmares. I even have Peter to annoy the shit out of me. What do I need you for?"

Alec isn't discouraged by the way she tries to brush him off - even he isn't so dense as to not see through that or view it as anything other than Ella just trying to protect herself. So Alec invites himself to sit on the other freshly-stained chair, planting his elbows on the table with his hands folded together. "Meditation," he says.

Ella sips on the tea, a single brow raised.

"Meditation will help you harmonize your magic," he says matter-of-factly. "There is a special meditation known only to magicians that will be beneficial to you. It won't be found in any book, but I can teach you. I can help you find a balance between the dark and light magic."

The silver flecks in her pallid grey eyes shine for a moment. "A shaman once showed me what my soul and magical pathways look like. They're pretty fucked up, to be completely honest. I'm probably a lost cause."

Alec tramps down on his shock at hearing this. Shamans are _rare_ \- very much so - and for one to have brought Ella to the astral plane and allowed her to walk freely enough that she should view herself is unheard of, but not surprising, considering the source. This is, after all, a girl hailing from _two_ magician lines. This is a girl who has somehow learned how to teleport from one place to another, a feat which Alec had never even heard of being _attempted_ , let alone mastered. She is very strong. It's likely that Ella is the exception to every _impossibility_ Alec can think of - including her estimation of her own worth.

Alec stares at her and shakes his head. "No, I don't think you are," he disagrees.

Ella squints at him skeptically.

And he thinks that he understands - he has to earn her trust.

It's an effort he's willing to make.

"Fine. I'll let you tutor me in this meditation thing," she says, holding the mug between her hands. She drops her eyes, turning the mug clockwise, a scrape of ceramic across wood.

"The magic?" he prompts gently. "What did you cast?"

A moment passes and he doesn't think that she's going to answer - and he wouldn't blame her for it.

Then she waves her hand in the air errantly, a pensive scowl crossing her face as she looks up at him. "Blood magic for mind control, but I seriously miscalculated," she says with a curl of her lip.

It isn't much - but it's a start.

* * *

 **A/N: Everything's ch-ch-changin'...No, but really. Dynamics are changing! For better or for worse? Hmmm...**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	158. part 11: 1: green curry

**PART ELEVEN**

* * *

 **one**

 **green curry**

* * *

It isn't until after the official start of the fall semester that Ella realizes Jane is _still in Charmstone_. Maybe it's because Ella has time to breathe - which both is and isn't a good thing - with all of her friends fucked off to Viridity for some solid college learning. Maybe it's because the scent of wonderfully spicy food wafts in after Jane as she enters the shop after her lunch break finally makes Ella realize that it's _September_ and autumn is already settling in with a cooling breeze.

Ella blinks rapidly as she straightens from the slouch she has adopted against the glass countertop, trying to process where exactly the time had gone. Summer is over, shit has happened, and Jane is still hanging around. And admittedly Ella hasn't been, like, at her _best_ or anything, but she's pulling out of the funk that followed her successful and super shitty fiasco with the pixies. It's just slow going, is all, mostly because Ella can remember what dark magic tastes like and because she isn't drowning her literal sorrows with a bottle of whiskey. Dealing with the aftermath of the hag was easier because of the oblivion she'd invited; dealing with the aftermath of the each uisge and Vera's death was easier because Ella had projects to focus on; even dealing with the aftermath of her accidental time loop and the resulting disaster of _that_ was easier because there was another crisis to deal with.

But this is different - harder, with more time trapped with her own thoughts and the crappy self-reflection that comes with that. Worse because she knows she can't deal the way she used to. Mostly it just leaves her wrong-footed, disoriented and disgruntled and, apparently, monumentally oblivious to really obvious things.

Like Jane and her continued presence in Charmstone and her apparent acceptance at being tasked to run the day-to-day workings at _The Magic Shop_.

If Ella were on her game, she would have noticed a week ago. _At least_.

"Emily wouldn't let me leave without this," Jane says as she gingerly sets down a paper bag on the counter between them. "It's green curry, the kind you like. I think I understand how it works with Emily now, but it's still just a bit strange how she _just knows_ exactly what I'm craving. Uncanny, really."

"She's a djinn," Ella mutters.

"And that's a genie, right?"

Ella wrinkles her nose. "Basically, yeah but without the three wishes thing. And Emily is only, like, a quarter djinn so her gift is extremely limited to just knowing what kind of foods someone desires."

"Guess it's a good thing she and Sam have that diner," Jane decides with a bright smile.

"You're here," Ella says abruptly.

Jane's brow wrinkles. "Well, it is my shift."

"No, I mean, you're still _here_. In Charmstone. And it's September," Ella says haltingly. "Don't you have classes to get back to?"

To her credit, Jane doesn't take offense at the way Ella awkwardly delivers her observation and it's probably because Jane is a nicer person than anyone really has a right to be. "Oh, that." Jane sighs, then offers a sheepish smile. "I meant to talk to you about that, but then it didn't seem to be the right time between the store and your lessons with Alec and…"

"You're staying," Ella realizes, not even bothering to mask her shock.

Because Jane has a _choice_ \- she can leave Charmstone at any time and not look back and not have to think about any of this shit ever again if she doesn't want to. Jane is thoroughly human. Jane has options that other people don't, but it doesn't matter because she's already made up her mind.

Jane's thin fingers fuss with the ivory bracelet Ella once made her, the ivy twining loosely around a bird-bone wrist. "I'm with family," Jane says with a decisive nod. She flicks her cornflower blue eyes up to Ella, then reaches across the counter to grasp Ella's hand, seemingly unbothered by the silver chains and glass linked around Ella's fingers. "I've never had family before. I've never had a _home_. But here, with you and this town, I finally feel like I have somewhere to belong. I feel safe. And I don't think I've ever felt safe like this. I don't want to give it up."

Ella squeezes Jane's fingers slightly, because she _gets it_. "What about school?"

"Online classes until the spring semester," Jane answers promptly. "My transfer to Viridity is already in the works."

Ella nods.

"I should probably expand the loft, or something," she hears herself saying. "We need actual rooms."

Jane laughs, then sets about unpacking the curry from the bag, shifting the foam container and a spork beneath Ella's nose. "I could always get an apartment," Jane says.

"No," Ella replies immediately, though she doesn't expand.

Even if she isn't spending every night at the loft, now that school has officially started, Anthony would probably benefit from a few nights to himself to study the awfully dense literature stacked on his desk. Besides, Ella isn't so sure _she_ should be alone right now and having Jane close seems like the kind of failsafe it would be smart to have. Especially since Jane seems to have a knack for taking care of things that slip Ella's mind - like lunch and passable customer service.

Ella pauses with a scoop of curry inches away from her mouth, peering at Jane with a suspicious glint in her eye. "Hey, am I paying you?"

"You are," Jane answers promptly, a twinkle in her eye.

"Good for me," Ella says wryly.

The curry is really good - but not as good as the way something in the back of Ella's mind settles at this turn of events.

* * *

 **A/N: Welcome to part 11! Things are going to happen here! Things you'll probably like! Maybe!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	159. part 11: 2: on directing

**two**

 **on directing**

* * *

"You're early," Ella says, her back to Alec as he makes his way into the loft which is, at the moment, more or less a hazard zone of epic proportions.

Ella has severely underestimated how much time it would take to make the loft livable for two permanent residents and aside from the haphazard shove of furniture and belongings, the walls of the loft themselves look distinctly lopsided. Apparently, it isn't as easy to do the whole Doctor Who _bigger on the inside_ thing as she had assumed and that means that Ella had had to undo what she'd previously done, then go hunting for a spell book that even remotely brushed on the subject of _construction_. She's lost track of the time and turns her squinted eyes to Alec as he weaves around toppled chairs.

Alec's brows hike upward. "I'm not early, I'm prompt. It's exactly two in the afternoon."

She makes a face. "God, you're from a different planet or something. _Nobody_ is ever on-time, because then they're early and being early is rude as fuck."

"Is it?"

"Oh my God, yes."

"Must be a cultural difference, then," Alec says mildly. "Are those walls…slanted?"

"Yes, they are. Thank you for noticing," she retorts smartly. Then she sighs, closes the book and spins around to pin Alec with an assessing stare. "What do you know about construction spells?"

"We're supposed to be meditating," he reminds her.

Ella rolls her eyes. "We will - after you help me do this."

"And _this_ would be…?"

"Jane's moving in," Ella says succinctly. "Officially. And it would be nice if we both had rooms instead of this giant communal space that offers, like, no privacy at all. So, can you help or not?"

Alec seems to be weighing something in his head. "You really shouldn't use so much magic while you're still out of balance," he says after a beat. But then he's folding up the cuffs of his linen shirt to his elbows and carefully picking his way around what used to be the living room of the loft. "However, I suspect that you will not be able to adequately concentrate until this is dealt with, so I will help where I can."

Ella watches as Alec loops around the loft, familiarizing himself with the way the walls feel. "So, you do know something about this kind of magic then?"

Alec hums. "Not specifically," he answers plainly. "But I understand how magic works for magicians and I would wager that I've at least _seen_ this kind of magic used. I'm sure you have noticed by now that casting magic for us is quite different than for others."

"It's more…instinctive."

He nods, turning around with his hands placed on his hips. "A fair amount of our magic is driven by instinct, as well as by intention and emotion. Magicians have an incredible amount of agency with their magic - it was one of the first things my father taught me. I'm sure you've already realized that learning how to cast new magic is better aided when you understand the mechanics?" Alec checks.

Ella nods, tuned completely into Alec's little lesson. It's interesting, hearing about what she's had to learn by trial and error by someone who was basically _trained_ as a magician by a magician. She wonders if it matters at all that their magical leanings are different, or if there is something weird about her magic. She recalls teleporting with Alec that one time and his stark shock that she _could_ \- and it would just figure that even compared to someone like her, she's still the odd one out.

"Well, the fundamentals of physics are necessary for us to understand," Alec says. "We have to have a very monistic view in that we see everything in the world, including our very souls, is made of matter. Those who cast magic, and especially magicians, have the ability to alter that matter at will. But nothing can be created out of nothing. Any kind of elemental magic, for example, is shaped from the matter around us - ions to create electricity or hydrogen to manipulate water or carbon for air. Magicians tend to do this kind of manipulation unconsciously because, for us, it's a basic building block. Even your wards, which are impressive, are fueled by the air around them and by the matter that they are linked to. In the end, magicians are essentially just very good at bending the laws of physics. _But_ we cannot break those laws. Whatever magic is, most of it comes with a price - an equal and opposite reaction, yes? All magic is nothing more than rearranging atoms at a very basic level. Follow?"

"Think so," Ella says softly. "So, what you're saying is that I can't make this one bedroom into two?"

Alec shakes his head. "No, you can. But it's more difficult to add space when either side of this apartment has a building - there is no place to expand, even with magic. However, there is nothing _above_ this space…"

"The attic. Of course," Ella sighs. "That's the obvious solution."

Alec smiles, an unreserved flash of amusement crossing his face. "I'll fix these walls down here and see about conjuring another to separate the space," he offers.

Ella agrees, because she honestly has _no idea_ how she managed to screw the walls up so badly. She reaches for the little string to pull down the folding wooden stairs and climbs into the dusty attic. It's not a space that's big enough to stand in, but now that she understands the _completely obvious_ foundation that she missed earlier - and now that she's at least browsed a book on this type of magic - Ella feels like she has a better handle on the project. She won't admit that she was edging into being overwhelmed, at least not out loud. But she _was_ beginning to feel anxious at her inability to make magic do what she wanted it to do - and that in turn was kindling the seed of anger that never quite goes fully away.

She's glad that Alec came early, otherwise Ella might have let her temper get the best of her.

With both hands splayed overhead, Ella pushes magic into the wooden beams and walls over her head, feeding new molecules made of dust and air into them to make them grow - and it's as easy as breathing now that someone has explained it to her in a way that she can understand. It doesn't take too long until Ella has shaped the attic into a wide space with a vaulted ceiling, free of dust but dark given the lack of windows. Empty and large, the attic space makes for a perfectly acceptable room. She likes it and resolves to nag Peter into borrowing his dad's sander again to refinish the floors; she'll paint the walls and levitate a bed herself, because this is _definitely_ going to be her new room. With that thought in mind, as Ella climbs down the rickety ladder-stairs, she widens the entrance to the attic and then transfigures the ladder into a wooden spiral staircase.

The loft is still a mess with everything all out of place, but Alec has successfully created a generous divide in the open space with a wall smack in the middle of the living room and a door in the middle leading to Jane's room. They still have a lot of work, but Ella is satisfied for now.

"Thanks," she says after Alec finishes.

He hums nonchalantly. "Think nothing of it. I am…more than happy to help family."

Ella's ribcage feels tight. There's that word again - family. It seems like Ella has more family these days than she knows what to do with. And even though she knows Alec means family in the literal blood-sharing way, it doesn't negate the fact that their civility and their shared interest in Jane is hurdling them into an actual family dynamic.

"Are you ready now?"

Ella presses her lips together, suffocating the whine of discontent that wants to bubble forth. This is her third guided meditation lesson with Alec and she hasn't felt any different. It's not like with therapy, where she can kind of see the difference that talking it out makes; no, meditation is a slow drag of progress. Ella is impatient for results but Alec says that it isn't how this works.

She's being taught how to harmonize. That shit doesn't just happen overnight. Apparently.

It does, however, involve a shocking amount of movement. Before they first started, Ella was pretty sure meditation just involved a lot of sitting and humming and thinking - and while that is certainly true, the kind of meditation that Alec is teaching her also involves yoga. Well, sort of.

They clear a space in the middle of the room and facing each other, Alec guides Ella into various positions that are meant to stretch both her body and her natural pathways. It makes a certain amount of sense, because Ella _knows_ just how gnarled and knotted and over-dilated her internal magical pathways are and if doing some stretches will help physiologically straighten that out, then she's all for it.

Alec moves into various standing stretches - arms overhead, something called a _sun_ _pose_ , a myriad of not-lunge lunges - with the kind of kinetic memory that speaks of doing the same thing everyday. She'd wager that Alec has been doing this type of meditation since he was a kid. Ella follows along, clumsy in comparison, and focuses on her breathing. In and out, slow and steady. Reach, then reach higher. _Expand_ herself.

They don't talk while they do this, because the point of it is for Ella to, like, get in touch with how her body moves - and when that is accomplished, she can then tap into the currents of magic running through her limbs. And so Ella does the dutiful thing, breathing deep and concentrating on the pleasing burn of stretching tendons and ligaments. By the time Alec settles onto the floor in a basic lotus position and she has folded her legs in a similar way with her hands upturned on her knees, her spine and shoulders feel free of the tension that she carries around. Which is _great_ , really.

Except this is the hard part.

"Find your magical core," Alec instructs.

He says it like it's easy.

It isn't.

Ella has _a lot_ of magic - so it isn't as simple as finding the origin of it, even though she knows it's somewhere just above her belly button. When she closes her eyes and tries to think about her magic, it's like the sensation equivalent of white noise. Just, like, fucking chaos swirling around inside and she knows it's her magic, but she can't find the center of it.

"Breathe," Alec reminds her.

Ella breathes.

"Your magic is out of balance. You must find the focal point of your magic."

Ella grits her teeth.

"Breathe."

"I _am_ breathing," she snaps.

Alec sighs.

"Clear your mind," he instructs. "Fall into yourself. Reach for the deepest part of yourself….find your magic."

Ella tries to follow his directions. She ends up fixating on the way her lungs inflate and deflate, eyes shut tightly so that all she sees is a press of blackness behind her eyelids. She's just used her magic - it should be easier to find than this. She feels it all the time, zipping through her veins and sparking at her fingertips, and though she feels her magic _now_ , she's pretty sure she's just getting a sense for the magic that is _there_. She needs to find where the magic _begins_. Ella can vividly remember what her magic looked like from her walk on the astral plane, but trying to visualize it while in her body is like running through water, or something.

After some immeasurable amount of time where all she has accomplished is establishing that she has a lot of magic that feels strangely frayed at the edges, Alec calls for her to cease her meditation.

She opens her eyes, lips pursed. "Well, that was pointless."

"It wasn't pointless," Alec is swift to say. "You're making progress."

" _Very_ slowly," she grouses.

He shrugs. "Your pace is your pace. It's better to go slow than to push beyond your current capabilities."

"If you say so."

"Same time tomorrow?"

Ella sighs. "Yeah. Same time tomorrow."

Maybe tomorrow she'll have better luck.

* * *

 **A/N: I've tried meditation. I have to confess that I wasn't successful at all because all I could think about is that my butt was falling asleep and if I really wanted to spend that much time with my eyes closed, I might as well just take a goddamn nap. Needless to say, I am not an expert by any means.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	160. part 11: 3: playground

**three**

 **playground**

* * *

Ella is sure that she'll never be able to _really_ explain why she feels such a pervasive need to make a space her own, to place her mark on a room like she's planting a flag and declaring a territory. If pressed, she would point to her ill-adjusted childhood spent being shipped from one cramped home to another, never quite feeling like she belonged; she might even give a nod of recognition to her time spent as a street rat with various underpasses and alleyways as temporary homes. By the time she settled in with Carlisle, the idea of _permanency_ is something foreign - and it still is, really, which is maybe why she has such a drive to just get the loft renovations done and over with.

Thankfully, however, Ella doesn't have to explain this to anyone. Anthony and Carlisle seem to understand it, because when they show up late in the afternoon that weekend, it is with a burden of paint cans and a parcel that will eventually reveal itself to be a window for the attic. This is Carlisle's first time in the loft and for a flicker of a moment, she wonders if he notices that she has scrounged up the same magnets that are on the refrigerator in the blueberry house, a little piece of _home_ that Ella will concede.

The moment passes and Carlisle is squinting behind his glasses, pushing them back up the bridge of his nose as slow-greying blond hair flops forward on his forehead. "Nice place, innit? Lots of light, close commute to work…could do with some creature comforts, though."

She nudges him with her elbow, relieving him of the burdensome paint cans with a flick of her wrist and floating them over to the spiral staircase. "I think that's Esme talking. I'm not really the type for throw blankets and cushy pillows. But thanks for delivering the paint, anyway."

Carlisle busses a kiss to her forehead. "Merely a favor, love, though I confess that Alice was very specific to the colors I should buy."

Ella shrugs. "Alice knows my taste."

And isn't that a shock? The paint, as it turns out, are two different shades; a soft, pale blue for Jane's room and a deeper green for Ella, the color both vibrant but not overwhelming. Both are colors she would have picked out herself if she had the time and wasn't overseeing the store while Jane was absent, off to the city to retrieve her belongings for the weekend. Her absence is felt keenly, of course, because Ella actually has to put in face time with her customers outside of the occasional custom order. Or at least she did until she got wise and made Peter do it while Ella took over the loft project. She considers it a fair trade of labor.

By the time Anthony and Ella have installed the window in the attic with the aid of magic - and after she has spelled it to only allow Raven entrance - Carlisle has readied tarps and paint rollers and tape in Jane's room.

"You're staying?" she asks with masked surprise, Anthony at her elbow.

Carlisle nods. "Thought I might get in some practice, I did. Esme's going on about sprucing up the house and I'm a bit rusty with a paint brush," he admits sheepishly.

Ella raises a brow, but doesn't turn down the offer to help. She might enjoy painting - there is something soothing about the mindless repetition of the task - but now that the difficult part is done in creating two rooms, Ella just wants to focus on righting her magic for the time being. Which she'll be able to do once the loft isn't a veritable construction zone. And it's actually quicker with three people, which means that both rooms are drying by the time _The Magic Shop_ closes downstairs. Peter shuffles in and drapes himself across the couch with a tired sigh.

"I'm _exhausted_ ," he claims dramatically. "I don't know how I'll go on."

"Idiot," Ella says somewhat fondly with a light kick to his ankle. "Jane never complains about closing up."

"Okay, but that's because Janey is a _saint_ ," Peter argues. "Really, are we sure she's completely human because, my God, it's almost unreal how… _Jane_ she is. Seriously unfair to compare me to that paragon of virtue and patience and, like, other good stuff."

"Jane?" Carlisle wonders.

"Oh, right." Ella sighs. She had introduced Alec to Carlisle, but not Jane. Really, it slipped her mind between all the other shit that's been piled up on her plate. Ella gestures broadly to the loft around her as she leans her weight forward, her stomach pressed against Anthony's shoulders where he reclines in one of the kitchen chairs. "All of this is because I have a new roommate. Jane is…an old friend from the system. I'll have to fill you in later. We should probably do, like, a lunch. Or something."

"Ah," says Carlisle thoughtfully, though she doesn't miss the spark of recognition behind his glasses. "Lunch sounds marvelous."

"You know what sounds marvelous?" Peter jumps in. "Dinner. Food. Literally any food. I'm so hungry. And I know for a fact that you don't have anything except for mustard and coffee in your kitchen, so…pizza?"

"I have more than mustard and coffee," Ella says with a scoff.

"Oh yeah?" Peter challenges.

"She also has chocolate in the freezer," Anthony pipes in dryly.

Ella rolls her eyes. "I'll order a pizza. Just, for the love of God, nothing with pineapple, Peter." Then ignoring Peter's affronted squawking, Ella raises her brows to Carlisle expectantly. "Are you staying, Dad?"

Carlisle smiles warmly, but shakes his head. "Afraid not, love. Promised Esme I'd swing by her office and drive her home after this, so I should be going."

Ella understands - and if she melts a little into his departing hug, then nobody notices or says anything about it. In fact, Peter has the grace to give Ella and Anthony a private moment after Carlisle leaves and excuses himself to pick up the pizza from _Pizz-arre_ a few blocks over.

With only the two of them in the loft, Ella has no compunctions about nestling onto Anthony's lap and pushing her hands through his paint-speckled hair. He leans into her touch with a rumble in his chest and her lips quirk into a tiny smile, the kind that's reserved only for him. "I like the window," she says after several moments. "Thanks for bringing it."

"Didn't think you'd get around to installing one if I didn't," he mutters.

She tugs on his hair at the subtle dig, but she doesn't argue. He's probably right. If the window hadn't been brought directly to her, Ella would have just settled for having a windowless room in a place that once was an attic because windows are, in her experience, non-essentials. Roofs and walls are more important than planes of glass. But paint and windows? Those are things that other people think about - all she cares about is the function.

Sometimes she wonders if she'll ever be a whole person, or if she's just going to spend the rest of her life waiting for other people to fill in the gaps for her. Maybe that's enough, though. It certainly seems to be working for now.

It's probably something she should talk about in therapy.

After she balances her magic. Or whatever.

Priorities.

Ella's hands slip down to the nape of his neck, her thumbs tilting his jaw up to the right angle just so she can close the distance between them with a lingering kiss. The way his arms tighten around her waist, the way his hand traces the curve of her hip down to her thigh and back up, tells her that he is receptive to her touch, just as he always is. But there isn't anything urgent about these kisses. This is the kind of kissing that comes from being familiar with another person. She knows just how to trace his upper lip with the tip of her tongue; he knows just how to nipple on her plump bottom lip; they know the best angle to deepen the kiss, the best way to get that much closer without elevating the exploration to another level.

She has just dropped her head back to expose the arc of her neck to that he can mouth at her throat when something niggles at the back of her mind. A sense of something _different_ that she just can't quite place -

No.

Wait, she knows that sensation - sort of. She's at least _been through_ something like it and knows that something very similar exists on the Viridity campus right near Toad Stool Hall - the narrow, towering dormitory for faeries.

Ella's eyes snap open and she leans away from Anthony. He momentarily stiffens at her retreat, heavy brow furrowed before he notices the far-off look in her eye. And then Anthony is gently grasping her chin so that her attention is directed at him again, his verdant-gold eyes serious and his tone solemn. "What is it?"

Her fingers curl loosely around his wrist, thumb pressed against bone. "Visitors," she says with a frown.

He nods curtly and stands both of them up, twisting his wrist so that they are holding hands. "Let's go."

God, but she loves him.

Ella turns her concentration to where she sensed a warping in the wards and teleports them out of the loft - and straight into the playground belonging to Charmstone's elementary school. There isn't any way to deny how creepy playgrounds are at night, with the creaking of metal swings and the way moonlight gleams off hard plastic to form misshapen masses. Ella is barefoot and the woodchips dig uncomfortably into the soles of her feet, but she can ignore that because she was right.

Charmstone has new visitors.

One is a girl, willowy and pale with deep auburn hair and crystal clear blue eyes, a certain ethereal beauty to the inner-glow of her skin and the too-perfect planes of her face that Ella has only seen on very few people. Dressed in a gossamer gown of dusty pink with a handkerchief hemline dripping over her feet, the girl is unmistakably a faerie. The haughty tilt of her chin and her imperious tone when she talks is also a dead giveaway; faeries are kind of snobs.

"Ah, lovely," says the girl with a saccharine smile. "I always do love a welcoming committee."

"What's your business in Charmstone?" Ella asks, cutting straight to the point.

It hasn't escaped her notice - or Anthony's - that this fae girl is surrounded by a contingent of other faeries who have shifted into their secondary form, glowing like fireflies with iridescent wings to hover in a tense line over the girl's shoulders. Like guards, or something. Having seen a few fae shift between human-sized and fae-size on campus, Ella knows just how fast that transformation can happen and it sends a shiver of grim anticipation down her spine.

These fae might not be friendlies.

The fae girl pouts at Ella's terse tone, then says mockingly, "Oh dear, have I offended you?"

Ella doesn't answer. Anthony shifts to press his shoulder against hers.

The fae sighs, as if put out. "You're no fun. It must be some kind of plague in this dreary little village. Why, even dear Aro has been contaminated!"

Ella blinks. "Aro?"

"My fiance," the fae supplies. "Do you know of him? Be a darling and go fetch him for me."

Ella scowls. "Yeah, I don't think so."

The fae sniffs. "Then the wolf can do it. That's what dogs are for, no?"

Anthony snarls, claws popping out of his fingers.

Ella steps forward. "I have another idea," she says darkly and her magic swirls down beneath her feet, reaching for the ley lines in the town and the wards that are attached to them. It takes barely more than a thought to pull at the right strings and she grins victoriously when all of the fae suddenly lurch upward. "How about you fuck off?" Ella suggests, snapping her fingers and watching as the fae are unceremoniously flung up and out of the town.

It's only a temporary fix, of course, and mostly because that fae girl was both annoying and rude. Fae can create portals anywhere and at anytime, which she knows better than most.

But she also knows a thing or two about buying time.

"Guess I know what I'm doing tomorrow," she mutters in aggravation.

It's _always_ something. What even is her life?

* * *

 **A/N: Oh, Ella. Haven't you noticed by now? Your life is a big jumble of _what the actual fuck?!_ with a lot of spontaneous adulting thrown in just for kicks. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	161. part 11: 4: nothing if not with you

**four**

 **nothing if not with you**

* * *

"Well, if it isn't the _lovely_ Ella Cullen. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company on this fine day?" Aro greets, gaily and grand. He's holding an honest-to-God martini glass brimming with sparkling plum liquid in one hand, dressed impeccably, and smiling at her as only an impish fae can as he ushers her into Toad Stool Hall. It's the middle of the day and she's reasonably sure that his evident daytime drinking is just a show, but with Aro, she can never be fully certain. His ice-chip lifeline is always sparking and buzzing so busily that she easily gets confused, but she's keen enough to him by now that she knows she can't take anything at face value.

As soon as he has closed the door and tried to offer her refreshments - she turns down both the alcohol and the faery leaf - Ella crosses her arms over her chest and says, "Your fiancée paid Charmstone a visit last night."

"Fiancée?" Aro wonders airily.

He's a good enough actor that Ella might have been fooled if not for the sudden tightness in his eyes. He's not half as vapid as he wants anyone to think, just like she isn't as dumb. "She called Anthony a dog," Ella says flatly.

"If the shoe fits…." Aro teases.

"Cut the shit, Aro," Ella snaps, already quite at the end of her rope. "What's up with this chick? What is she doing here and why is she looking for you if you're engaged to be married? Is this something I need to worry about?"

" _Arranged_ engagement to be married," he corrects coolly.

"Like that matters."

Aro's eyes widen. "You don't think I actually _want_ to marry that harpy, do you?" he asks, looking genuinely affronted by the notion. "Sulpicia is _unbearable_. Her name _literally_ means torture, for one, and for another, she doesn't appreciate anything not of the fae realms. She's a nightmare and I have absolutely _not_ agreed to my mother's meddling in arranging this farce of a marriage."

That's right, Ella suddenly remembers. Faeries are matriarchal. After just meeting Sulpicia once, she can honestly say that she doesn't exactly blame Aro for trying to duck out of tying the knot with someone with her nose stuck so far in the air. She can't imagine that Aro's future wife would be very understanding of his penchant for partying.

But then again, it's not exactly _her_ problem, is it?

Heaving a great sigh, Ella pins Aro with the full weight of her gaze. "Look, whatever your deal is with this girl, you should know that I booted her out of town last night and that she can _definitely_ get back into Charmstone any time she wants to. She's going to find you eventually and I don't want this to become a problem that I need to deal with. So find your balls and buck up."

Aro appears put out for the briefest of moments - and then his face lights up, eyes widening in realization. "Oh, but little witch, it _is_ your problem, is it not?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You owe me a favor," Aro says gleefully.

Shit.

Ella falters. She'd forgotten about that blood oath she made to get herself out of the time loop - and since fae trade in favors, there's really no way she can get out of this if Aro wants to cash in now. When she made the oath, she kind of thought maybe the favor would be along the lines of defeating a beast or something. She never thought Aro would make her favor be so paltry.

"I want out of this marriage," Aro declares, voice oddly musical and bright with relief. "I want to marry for love, not for a political alliance. And I want you to make sure that I get that opportunity."

Ella isn't so uncouth as to actually gape at him, but it's a near thing. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, but I am, little witch," he says. "I take owed favors very seriously and you do, in fact, owe me for more than that tiny blood oath, don't you? After all, I made sure everything fell into place _just right_ so you would make all the right discoveries and start the time loop. But if you do this for me, if you make sure that my marriage is one of the heart, then I will forgive all the favors owed to me - both official and unofficial."

Her lip curls. "Asshole."

"It's called negotiating, little witch, and you have an oath to uphold," he sing-songs. Aro sips at his purple drink and wanders off. "You may show yourself out!"

Ella slams the door behind her and stomps off across campus. Fuck and double fuck - there was no getting out of this. Ella is barely equipped to handle her _own_ relationships, so she doesn't know how Aro expects her to pull of a miracle like _this_ but the whole situation is teasing enough at her ever-present irritation that her teeth actually hurt from how hard she's clenching her jaw, nails digging into the meat of her palm.

Damn Aro - and damn faeries, too.

Ella can't think of a single thing she is more disinclined to do than fix Aro's problems for him - and yet, she doesn't really have a choice. Once again, her priorities are shifting to accommodate the new drama entering her life. She swears she's never been so busy before moving to Charmstone. Or so stressed. Or so prone to fits of anger.

Seething and helpless to it, Ella spends a chunk of time at the edge of the town border, decimating several trees with the flex of her magic - burning out the anger in the only way she knows how just to clear her mind enough so she can _think_. It's more frustration directed to herself than anything. Why did she agree to that favor? There had to have been another way - except that there wasn't and she knows that. Ella couldn't use magic to time travel and look where it's gotten her; felling trees and obliterating stones and grinding dirt into silt under the tremendous pressure of her magic flaring in unaltered arcs out of her body.

The irony is that it's at this very moment that she feels her magical core - a white-hot, tightly-packed bundle of energy just above her belly button which pulses in time with each unleashed lash of magic. And Alec is right that it's out of balance, fluctuating unsteadily, too strong and then too weak, too much and then not enough, too dark and then too light. Completely out of whack.

By the time she's done with her tantrum, her frustration is simmering in the back of her mind and her awareness of her magical core is gone. She doesn't know if she'll be able to find it in meditation, or if she'll have to tell Alec about _this_ and hope that he knows of another method that is more explosive rather than introspective.

Panting, Ella can think of only one place to go to calm down and re-center herself. She _pops_ right into Anthony's dormitory, instantly laying eyes on the way he is hunched over a book at his desk taking copious notes in blue ink, both in the book and in one of the thick spiral-bound notebook she sells at the shop. He doesn't look at her immediately. Rather, he seems to finish the sentence or the page or whatever and makes the point of marking his place before turning to her with an inquisitive tilt to his scarred brow.

Ella bursts into an explanation, pacing a tight circle as she rants on the new issue she's been tangle up in. And admittedly, she isn't exactly paying attention to his reaction, trying to collect her thoughts and frustrations and make them verbal while also clamping down on her magic -

But then Anthony interrupts and his voice is a low rumble. "You made a deal with a faerie," he says flatly, words tight and cutting and said in a tone bordering on dangerous.

Her skin prickles in a warning, gooseflesh appearing on her arms and hair standing up on the nape of her neck. Anthony is angry. Like, _really_ angry. She can feel it through the bond of their lifelines, a slow roil of a thing that is building. He certainly has better control over it than she does, but all the same, when she speaks her voice is tinged with caution.

"I had to get back home," she explains, repeating herself. "I had to make a deal with Aro. There wasn't any other way."

He jolts up from his chair, the armrests banging against the underside of the desk. "For fuck's sake, Ella! How could you be so reckless?" he demands angrily.

Anthony is tall. His height is one of his defining features, actually, and probably one of the first things she noticed about him. He very easily towers over the people around him and it's only because he isn't intentionally looming that his height doesn't make him feel like a threat. But now, with his nostrils flared and his eyes flashing more green than amber and the width of his shoulders, the flex of the tendons in his arms, reminding her just how much bigger and stronger he is - Ella is starkly reminded that Anthony is _dangerous_.

She's never responded favorably to intimidation - no matter how accidental - and she isn't about to change that now. Ella shoves his chest, pulsing magic against his pectorals to make him stumble back a step and give them distance. "Fuck you, Tony," she spits out. "I did what I have to do - I always do what I have to do, just like you do -"

"It's not the same!" he thunders, throwing his arms out wide. "This isn't like making a hard choice to save lives! This is you making a promise _in blood_ to fulfill an unspecified favor to a creature whose entire race is fucking infamous for duplicity!"

"I knew what I was getting into!"

"No, you didn't!"

"I'm not stupid! I knew the risks and I took them anyway!"

They're shouting at each other now, leaning into each other's space and feeding off of the frustration spiraling in a feedback loop between them. And Ella, fresh off of a temper tantrum, is feeling more than a little wild - more than a little out of control, out of her mind.

"You're certifiable!" he shouts

"And you don't seem to realize that I love you!" she yells back. She shoves at his chest again, a perfect juxtaposition to her words. "I would do anything to get back to you! I would take the same risk every time!"

She doesn't know which of them moves first.

She doesn't know if it matters.

In the space between heartbeats, they are crashing against each other, all hot hands and hard, bruising kisses. She is yanking at his hair, pulling him down or trying to lift herself closer - she doesn't know and it doesn't matter. The kiss is just as impassioned as their arguing had been. It doesn't gentle. It grows more desperate, more rushed, more ardent and unforgiving in how exacting the lust is riddling their brains.

Ella can't think beyond the next touch and, somehow, she ends up on her back on his bed, her shirt rucked up over her breasts and her nipples red from his mouth. There are similar marks left beneath the curve of her breast, on the ridge of her ribs, just to the side of her navel, the junction of her hip, the tender inside of her thigh. Anthony, hair wild and a steady growl rolling through his chest, is two fingers deep inside her scorching core - and as she watches, chest heaving and loud, panting gasps escaping her swollen lips, he shoulders between her knees, making a place for himself as he kneels on the floor. He tugs her closer to the edge of the bed, ass just barely hanging off, and then his tongue is rasping against the slickness of her nether lips. He isn't punishing about the pleasure, really, but he isn't cautious about it, either. He delves deeper, nipping and tonguing and thrusting, pulling two orgasms from her body - like demands that she is hopeless to resist.

After, he lays his head against her thigh, thumb tracing a slow circle against her hip. He'd brought himself off, groaning against her as he did, and she was sure she'd never seen anything more beautiful than Tony at that moment, lips slick with her and completely unapologetic about his pleasure.

Ella reaches down, still breathless, and pushes his hair away from his face. "I meant what I said," she murmurs.

He turns his head and kisses her quivering thigh. "I know," he sighs against her skin. Then he looks up, green-and-amber eyes serious, and he says, "We'll deal with this together."

"Together," she agrees.

As if they had any other choice - as if there was any other way.

* * *

 **A/N: So, I thought _a lot_ about this chapter and what to call this chapter and I ended up naming it after a Tegan & Sara song called _Not With You_. If you haven't heard it, I strongly recommend you do, as that album is one of the inspirations behind Ella's characterization. It's also just really good music. **

**And Sulpicia, in Spanish, really does mean "torture". Of course, Sulpicia was also some Greek poet, so who the hell knows _why_ SM decided Sulpicia was a good name for Aro's wife in the books - but, I mean, I'm going with the meaning of the name _for reasons_. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	162. part 11: 5: ask me about my slang

**five**

 **ask me about my slang**

* * *

Peter, it seems, knows each nook and cranny of the Viridity libraries. Between his natural, insatiable curiosity and his deadset loyalty to Ella, it takes little more than Ella mentioning that she needs to learn about faeries before Peter is volunteering to collect the right books and planning a study vigil at the loft. He's known _something_ was up when he returned to an empty loft bearing pizza and a confused smile - and so Ella has very few qualms about asking Peter for help.

Which is why the following few days is marked mostly by Jane's return with a single box and a duffel bag of clothes, the regularity of classes that the college students attend, and the necessity of Ella covering the shop for the slow, steady trickle of customers. At night, Peter and Anthony join Ella upstairs while Jane closes up the shop and runs out to pick up dinner from the diner. It's _busy_ and switching from the normalcy of everyday life into nighttime research sessions is incredibly jarring.

Even still, Ella may be nose-deep in a book about the myths of faerie oaths, but her senses are still finely tuned into the wards around her building - so she notices immediately when Jane returns from the diner with an unexpected guest. Alec seems to have taken most of the food burden from Jane, following her into the loft to set familiar take-out bags on the kitchen counter.

Leaning against Anthony's side with her feet propped over the side of the couch, Ella makes no effort to hide the disorganized array of books and noted scribbles spread out on the floor and the ottoman in the living room. And true to form, Alec isn't shy about voicing his thoughts.

"Interesting reading material," he comments with a lingering note of expectancy in his tone.

Ella doesn't rise to the bait and neither does Anthony. Peter, for his part, is distracted from research by the grumbling in his stomach and has made his way to the kitchen, already inhaling fries at an alarming rate.

Jane, however, is roused by Alec's observation and it seems she belatedly realizes that they aren't all just idly hanging out in the loft. She picks up a book and reads the front cover, eyebrows hiking up in surprise. "Faeries? Like the kind that live here?"

"Like the kind that don't live here, but also yes," Peter answers around a mouth of food. It's gross, but it's also _Peter_ and Ella is used to it by now.

"Visiting fae, then?" Alec clarifies.

Ella sighs, dropping her head back against Anthony's shoulder. They've made up after their spat - if it can be called that - and they're back on the same page, as usual. But Ella isn't quick to forget the way he reacted to her faerie revelation. She's pretty sure it has something to do with being _raised_ in the supernatural world and knowing about the kind of hijinks fae get up to with hapless people, and she has a sneaking suspicion that Alec will be of the same anti-fae opinion. Not that she's scared or anxious about how Alec will react, or anything. She just didn't want to _deal_ with it for as long as possible.

Seems that ship has sailed.

"Yes," she says shortly.

Anthony catches her hand, weaving their fingers together over her stomach with his arms on either side of her body and an abandoned book in each of their laps. "We have a minor issue with a fae associate of ours," he adds calmly.

There is no doubt about what he _doesn't_ say, though - and there is a clear warning in his tone, unvoiced but present, that Alec clearly hears by the way he inclines his chin in understanding. Alec doesn't need to be involved.

Of course, there never really is any accounting for Peter.

"It's kind of a thing," Peter chimes in, sucking the salt off his fingers with one hand as he digs around for another sachet of fries with the other. He's such a glutton that he apparently doesn't notice Ella's burning stare on the side of his face, because he just _keeps talking_. "See, Ella's in indentured servitude to that glitterdouche because she owes him a favor and now we're researching. Which, like, the researching is cool and I always enjoy it, but there's been this _serious_ tension and -

"Wait, glitterdouche?" Jane interrupts with a delicate furrow to her brow.

Ella rolls her eyes. "He means Aro."

Peter grins widely. "Ask me about my slang sometime, Janey. Nobody else seems to appreciate it, but I have a feeling you might."

Jane giggles.

Alec isn't so easily distracted by irrelevant chatter, which Ella is starting to think is a family trait, along with laser-like intense stares complete with metallic flecks flashing in eyes. "You made a deal with a fae?" he demands, stepping toward the couch with a strained expression.

"Not you, too," Ella mutters.

Alec clicks his tongue and shakes his head in disappointment. "I hope the need was dire. Faeries are notorious for taking advantage of owed favors."

"Especially ones made with blood oaths," Peter adds helpfully.

Ella glares at him and it's only Anthony's easy hold on her that stops her from springing away from the couch to physically knock some sense into Peter's brain, because _God, Peter_.

"You made a _blood oath_ to a faerie?" Alec asks, voice rising in shock.

Ella groans, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment before sitting up just a tad straighter. " _Yes._ God, I'm so sick of hearing about this. Look, I get it, it wasn't by best or brightest moment, but it got the job done. And Aro isn't really asking too much of me in the grand scheme of things."

Peter coughs. "Uh, well, actually….I mean, I don't want to be the burster of bubbles, but glitterdouche is asking for a miracle of biblical proportions. I'm talking, like, the equivalent of Noah's implausible boat schtick except at least Noah knew how that would end."

"Christ," Ella says with a sharp sigh.

"That's what I'm saying," Peter says with a snap of his fingers. "You really might need Jesus to help with this. By the way, what _is_ your religious stance? I've never been super clear about that -"

"Peter," Anthony warns.

"Shutting up," Peter says, teeth clicking together.

Jane has been watching the volley of the conversation with an increasingly worried expression. She edges closer to the couch, hugging a book to her chest with a frown."I don't understand. What is this Aro asking you to do?"

"Dissolve a marriage contract."

"And somehow avoid starting World War III at the same time," Peter mumbles under his breath. Noticing that he's being stared at incredulously, he flails his arms in exasperation and lunges forward to grasp one of the recently discarded books, flipping the pages quickly. " _What_? I'm not being dramatic. See, here? This book says that faerie contracts are of the _until death_ variety and, I mean, it's looking pretty bleak, dude."

"There has to be a way," Ella says stubbornly.

There's always a way - she knows that much. It might not be a _good_ way, but there are always other options to try.

But Alec shakes his head and drops his shoulders with a sigh. "Peter is likely correct. Fae do not forgive or forget easily and a contract is the epitome of a promise to be kept. They'll expect it to be honored at any and all costs."

Which is what Anthony had told her after they'd done the kiss-and-make-up-thing, but Ella still isn't willing to let it go _that_ easily. "Contracts have loopholes. _Everything_ has a loophole," she argues. "Hell, _I'm_ a walking magical loophole and so are you, Alec. There has to be something I can use."

"Well, I mean, you could ask Lillian, right?"

All eyes turn to Jane in surprise.

Peter is the first to pick up the thread that Jane has just revealed so quietly. He's practically bouncing in excitement as he says, "If you had a contract to look over, then Lillian could study it and see if there's any room for glitterdouche to get out of this unscathed. Like, we have an _almost-lawyer_ as a friend. Lawyers totally live and die by the contract, right, like fae but only human and not so glittery. Why didn't we think of this before?"

 _Probably because it was so damn obvious_ , Ella thinks with some chagrin.

* * *

 **A/N: Ever have that moment where the obvious answer is staring you right in the face and all you can do is be like, "Well, I feel _super dumb_ right now"? That just happened. Also, glitterdouche makes a return appearance, because it still tickles me. Oh, Peter. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	163. part 11: 6: a not-so-simple solution

**six**

 **a not-so-simple solution**

* * *

After sending off a silver-fire message to Aro, it takes a few days for a copy of the marriage contract to make its way into Lillian Hale's competent hands. The contract itself is humming with magic, unfamiliar to Ella but fae in nature; it is written in glittering ink on aged parchment, stamped with wax and signed with flourishes. The language, however, is not a barrier aside from being written in the confounding pattern of legalese, where it takes three times as long to communicate an idea than it really should.

Lillian doesn't seem to have any problems, though. She seems excited at the prospect of using her not insignificant knowledge of the law in a way that doesn't involve double-talk with police officers. Lillian takes the contract with care and spends the next night studying it in great detail.

She isn't so excited when she comes back to the shop - sort of dispassionate and bleak, handling the contract with a sense of resignation. "It's not good," is all Lillian says before she launches into an explanation in the back room of the shop.

Ella's stomach twists uncomfortably at the revelations that Lillian makes - especially the implication that Aro is, essentially, being auctioned off to the highest bidder for little more reason than he is male, virile, and ostentatiously unattached. Lillian compares it to studding horses, red-stained lips twisting in distaste at the realization. Ella can't help but share the sentiment. It's more than a little fucked up and even if Aro is _at best_ a tentative ally, nobody deserves to have their choice taken away.

Maybe she shouldn't judge. There is a cultural difference to consider. Obviously, this is some kind of system that the fae have been using for _ages_ and it seems to work for them. They are a matriarchal society, live very long lives, and don't reproduce very frequently; marriage contracts seem to be the best way of ensuring that the species lives on. And she doesn't have a problem with _that_ \- hell, even humans have been known to do the same at points during history, though of course the gender rule is reversed.

No, what Ella has a problem with - what really stokes her ire - is the issue of consent.

Aro has made it clear that he _doesn't want this_. He doesn't want to marry Sulpicia, and by extension, he doesn't want to _breed_ with her, either. And yet, his opinion doesn't matter. His choice isn't being considered. And that, more than anything, pisses Ella off.

She's been there. She knows what it feels like for her opinions, her thoughts, her consent and her right to her body to be so insignificant that it feels like _she_ doesn't matter. She's felt like an object before. She thinks in some ways most people have, at one point or another. And Ella will be damned if something like _that_ happens under her nose, in her town, with someone who she considers under her protection - coerced favor, or not.

Like with most of the issues that she finds herself involved in, her favor with Aro and the task she has been given evolve into a group discussion. A week after Ella is ensnared in the faerie drama, she is sitting on the kitchen counter in the loft, Anthony's hip leaning against her knee and his arm stretched behind her back to grip the opposite side of the counter near her thigh. Everyone else is similarly spread out and containers of Chinese food are being passed between everyone, forks and chop sticks held aloft and battles over the last eggrolls adding a levity that she can't quite tune into. She knows that Anthony senses her remote mood and he takes charge of the meeting, prompting Lillian to go over the contract again in detail - this time to the entire group instead of just Ella.

She isn't completely certain that everyone is on the same page as she is - understandable, kind of, given that it's a kind of injustice that is either felt or isn't. She feels it more keenly than most, maybe. Sensitive to it, or something.

Ella tunes back into the conversation when Bree's voice breaks into the air with a classic lack of tact. "Wait, are you saying that faeries have pon farr?"

"Bree," Anthony says with a frown.

"What?" she asks in exasperation. "It's a legitimate question! Plus, I mean, if it _is_ like a pon farr, then maybe Aro shouldn't be complaining - he could, like, die if he doesn't mate, right? Just like Vulcans."

"It makes sense with their long lifespans," Alec murmurs from Jane's side, fiddling with a chop stick. He'd been the only one in the room to not struggle with using them, of course, but he'd taken the time to give Jane a miniature master class on how to use them. Now, though, he's got a thousand-yard stare on his face, like his mind is somewhere else. "Like a natural population control."

"Wonder if that means they have kal-if-fee?" Peter interjects curiously. "I mean, I haven't read anything about it yet, but maybe Aro _does_ have an option to battle out the mating fever so he doesn't have to, you know, fuck or die."

Lillian shakes her head, though. "No, I don't think so. Even if there is a plak tow for the faeries, the contract would still apply. It seems like faerie contracts are somehow enforced with magic, anyway."

Everyone stares at Lillian in shock. Peter actually sputters and Bree's eyes grow round.

Lillian clears her throat delicately, a flush creeping up her cheeks. "Jasper _is_ my brother," she says by way of explanation.

But Jasper scoffs loudly, the most sound he's made since he championed for the last crab rangoon. He's been playing a game on his phone, one earbud hanging limp around his neck, and looks away from the screen long enough to shoot a lazy grin to the rest of the room. "Don't let her fool you. Rose went to space camp, like, three summers in a row," he announces, eyes glassy.

Lillian glares at her brother.

"Are we geek shaming?" Peter wonders with an expressive frown. "We shouldn't geek shame, it's bad form."

Anthony's fingers rap against the counter by Ella's hip. "Back to the point - is there a way out of this for Aro or not?" he asks Lillian point-blank.

She sighs, carefully rolling the contract back up. "No. It's iron clad from what I can understand. Emet's been helping me look it over, translating some of the cultural differences, and there aren't any loopholes here."

"Man, that sucks," Peter comments.

Ella is silent, turning the problem over in her mind. The contract doesn't offer any options - but does that mean that there is _nothing_ she can do?

"Aro wants to marry for love," she murmurs.

Anthony glances at her, tilting his head in consideration. "That what he said?"

"Verbatim."

"Well, then the solution is obvious," Riley says from his perch on the arm of the couch. He rolls his eyes when everyone looks to him in confusion and tucks his long hair behind his ears. "Hello, has _anyone_ watched a movie? All that needs to happen is for Aro to fall in love with Sulpicia - then the contract will be fulfilled and he'll be marrying for love. Simple."

Ella doubts convincing Aro will be as easy as Riley makes it sound.

* * *

 **A/N: I can never quite resist a Star Trek reference - I think I might actually have a problem. Also, I know next to nothing about contract law _but_ let's just say that fae are super skilled in trapping people into making and keeping deals. Like real lawyers, except the consequences are immediate and nasty. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	164. part 11: 7: a true romantic

**seven**

 **a true romantic**

* * *

"You mortals really _are_ stupid," says Sulpicia, a look of pity etched across her face as she stands across from Ella. She's already waved her fae-sized guards back, apparently unthreatened by Ella even after what happened the last time they crossed paths. If anything, Suplicia seems to think she's condescending to even speak to Ella, which is irksome.

But Suplicia is also keeping a certain distance between them and Ella is reasonably sure that the faerie is more leery than she lets on. Good - that works for Ella.

Right now, their tenuous conversation - after Ella has _popped_ right up where Sulpicia's new portal had appeared, this time in the middle of the town square at another ungodly late hour - is stilted at best. Ella has already grudgingly explained that she's only here to broker a negotiation on Aro's behalf, to which Sulpicia had sneered at.

Sulpicia sneers a lot, and somehow, it never mars her pretty face. Fucking faeries, honestly.

"Why must Aro play these silly games? I have already won him," Sulpicia claims. She waves her hand at Ella and adds, "Be gone, mortal, and tell Aro that I tire of his nonsense."

"You've won a right to his cock," Ella says bluntly, ignoring the dismissal. "You haven't won _him_. You haven't even _won_ anything, really, except the right to sign a contract."

"Is there any difference between a man and his potency?" Sulpicia wonders.

The question is rhetorical; it doesn't really deserve an answer and even if it did, in any other circumstance, Ella would sardonically agree to Sulpicia's point. However, this is a very specific situation and Ella has taken issue with this whole contract business, seeing it as more and more barbaric as the days pass. So she replies, "Aro believes there is a difference, and so do I. Whether or not his mother sold him to you, Aro doesn't want to marry you."

"Luckily, that isn't up to him," Sulpicia points out.

Ella grimaces. "Except that it _is_ up to him," she says, spreading her arms out at her sides. "That's why I'm here."

"You."

"Yes."

" _You_ are to be Aro's champion?" Sulpcia seems bewildered, her guards buzzing in glowing orbs around her. "Whatever for? What reason have you to champion for Aro's rebellion?"

Ella raises a brow. "You mean aside from not willing to be complicit in the nonconsensual arrangement and being extremely turned off by what is essentially sexual slavery?" Ella pauses for a beat, watching the way Sulpicia doesn't even bat an eye at her not-so-subtle accusations. Ella presses her lips together. "I owed Aro a favor - a blood oath."

Sulpicia's eyes widen. "Is that so?" she asks with interest.

"Yeah, that's pretty much the deal."

Sulpicia tilts her head. "You're no average mortal are you?"

Ella lifts her chin. "No," she says succinctly.

The faerie's lips spread into a pleased smile. "Oh, my darling Aro is proving quite clever, isn't he? Even if his hesitation is tiresome, I'm entertained by the web he's weaving. Tell me, what is it that Aro has asked you to do exactly?"

"Break the contract."

Sulpicia laughs. "Well, that cannot be done."

"No shit," Ella says flatly.

"But even if you fail, you'll still owe him a favor," Sulpicia says,

"I haven't failed," Ella contradicts swiftly.

"Oh?"

"I don't have to break the contract if I can give Aro what he wants," Ella says.

"You have a plan," Sulpicia observes. "What is it that Aro wants?"

"He wants to marry for love."

"How _romantic_ ," Sulpicia sneers.

A faint smile crosses Ella's face. "I hope you mean that genuinely," she says, a spark of silvery magic crackling around her fingers. "Because even if you can't win Aro's heart, I have no intention of failing to fulfill this oath. I'll find a way to break the contract."

"Faerie contracts cannot be broken," Sulpicia says coldly.

Ella tilts her head, eyes narrowed. "Not unless one of the contract holders are dead," she says knowingly. Ella grins sharply when Sulpicia's already pale skin blanches. "Yeah, it's an obscure bit of lore, isn't it? Faerie contracts don't have any loopholes and they are enforced by the magic in your realms and they have hideously nasty contracts. Faerie contracts can't be broken - unless, of course, by default if one of the signees is pushing up daisies."

"You would take the life of one who has granted you favor just to wiggle out of an oath?" Sulpicia demands.

Ella snorts derisively. "No, please, Aro is perfectly safe from me. He's a good ally to have. You, however, are fair game."

Sulpicia's fae guards race toward Ella - and with nothing more than an errant wave of her hand, she flicks them away like nothing more than particularly annoying mosquitos, her magic buffering them clean out of the town square. Sulpicia takes a step backward, all of her haughtiness gone in a flash. Of course, it isn't like Ella feels _great_ about the ultimatum she's about to offer, but she had weighed on her choices for a long time, seriously considering the implications of any path she might choose. Like Anthony, she tends toward the pragmatic - and while owing Aro a favor isn't the worst thing in the world, Ella also doesn't want to risk Aro's next favor being something she really _can't_ fulfill.

So, if she has to do a _little_ arm-twisting, what's really the harm in that?

Ella's lips quirk into a saccharine-sharp smile. "So, I guess you have two choices, right? Play along and win Aro's heart, or I'll have to get _creative_ about breaking that contract. What do you say?"

Sulpicia doesn't dither about it for more than a second. "I will win Aro's love," she bites out.

"Look at that," Ella says with sarcastic praise. "You're a true romantic, too."

* * *

 **A/N: Classic Ella, getting her way with a little casual threatening. I mean, it's not a _healthy_ way of finding a compromise, but you can't really argue with the results, either...Pretty sure Ella's an anti-hero! **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**  
 **~cupcakeriot**


	165. part 11: 8: love potion no 9

**eight**

 **love potion no. 9**

* * *

Ella slams into _The Magic Shop_ , promptly scaring off two kids perusing the shelves into fleeing from the store and drawing the attention of the two people conversing idly at the register. As the bell above the door chimes merrily as it closes, Ella stomps around the counter with a glower set firmly in place.

Peter, poor brave soul that he is, is bold enough to hazard a guess as to the cause of Ella's deplorable mood. "Another dud of a date, huh? Guess it didn't go so well."

Without turning back around, Ella flips him the bird and continues on to the basement with one goal in mind - getting rid of the tension headache pulsating in her temples. In the very limited idle time she has when she isn't _failing_ at meditation or keeping the store in stock by replenishing the inventory or playing _motherfucking_ chaperone to a pair of faeries, she has been fiddling with the idea of magical over-the-counter solutions that don't involve tea. It's been slow going, of course, because Ella isn't exactly skilled in potioneering in the first place, but she's been able to cobble something together. A patch of a sort, with a healing sigil hand-painted on in a mixture of henna ink, magic, and the right herbs for the ailment. Ella wastes no time in slapping one designed for headaches onto her collarbone and releases a pent-up sigh as she waits for it to work, elbows on the workbench and her eyes pressed into the heels of her palms.

If she didn't know better, she'd think she must have been _high_ to think, even for a second, that she was even vaguely clever in her machinations with this blood-oath-faerie-contract thing, which is turning out to be a bigger pain in the ass then she'd originally assumed.

Aro and Sulpicia don't get along - hell, they don't even _like_ each other. Well, no, that isn't quite true. Sulpicia certainly likes to objectify Aro and slip as many subtle comments on his apparent virility into conversation as possible. It would be almost impressive, actually, if only Ella didn't have to hear it. And Aro, for his part, positively cannot _stand_ Sulpicia unless she's paying her vocal appreciation to his good looks. Any other time Sulpicia isn't hitting on him, Aro makes his distaste blatantly obvious and that, of course, delivers a blow to Sulpicia's pride that makes her particularly unpleasant to be around.

This is the third date that Ella has had to oversee in as many days and after all the trouble of _convincing_ both parties to participate in this epic fail of a social experiment, Ella is beginning to actively regret every life choice that has led her to this moment. Like, a lot. Because while the first five minutes aren't exactly _terrible_ , eventually Sulpicia will voice her opinion about the "lowly" mortal realm, Aro will bristle at the affront to his chosen home, Sulpicia will try to save face with another compliment, Aro will outright reject her, Sulpicia will get offended, and _amazingly_ it will continue to devolve from there until the two fae are bickering at each other and Ella, for her own sanity, will forcibly separate them.

She doesn't know how much more of this she can take - and that's saying something, considering both her childhood and the last year of her life.

The headache patch works quickly, a cooling in her head as the ache ebbs away and she can _think_ without clenching her teeth together. _Clearly_ there wouldn't be an end to this nightmarish faerie torture any time soon if Aro and Sulpicia keep this up - and Ella has shit to do, like balance her magic and run her store.

There has to be another way. A better way.

Ella trods back up to the floor, shutting the basement door behind her. She looks at Peter and Jane, both of them watching her with varying levels of concern. "I'm sick of dealing with these idiots," she bitches.

Jane rustles around for a little notebook she keeps on her person at all times, clicking a pen a few times as she flips the pages. "So, the picnic idea wasn't any good, I guess?"

Ella shakes her head mutely and Jane crosses that idea on the list she'd put together a few days ago.

Peter raises his brows thoughtfully. "Well, I mean, picnics kind of aren't any fun anyway? Like, there's always ants and eating in the grass is sort of weird and…" He trails off, catching Ella's unimpressed glare, and shrugs his shoulders. "And what's the next idea?"

"Kill them both," Ella says darkly.

Peter squints at her. "Yeah, I can't tell if you're serious or not."

Jane giggles nervously.

"No, but really, what are you thinking?" Peter prompts, uncommonly serious.

Ella heaves a sigh, slumping back against the basement door, rolling her head side to side. "I could lock them in a room together and let them kill each other," she suggests mildly.

"Isn't there some kind of love potion?" Peter tries.

Ella scowls at him. "No love potions," she says firmly. When he looks surprised at her quick dismissal, she feels compelled to expands. "Love potions are sketchy and even when they work, they're more like lust potions that mess with inhibition. They're basically the magic version of date-rape drugs. No way in hell am I using one."

But Peter doesn't look as convinced as she thought he would by her argument. "There are some potions that don't have the lust component though, right? Not that I've looked it up, but like, Riley is on this Sandra Bullock kick and the other day he made me watch this movie, _Love Potion No. 9_ -"

"Isn't that a song?" Jane interjects.

Peter flaps his hand. "It _is_ a song, but the movie is based off of the song and _anyway_ , it's basically all about this shitty thing called Love Potion No. 8 being, like, completely overpowered by Love Potion No. 9, which doesn't actually, like, cause love or lust or whatever, but removes the _barriers_ to love," he explains in a rather bumbling manner. He clears his throat, hiking his brows up, bright blue eyes challenging as he stares at Ella. "Can't you do something like that? Get some kind of brew or what-have-you and give them the real world version of Love Potion No. 9?"

A beat passes. Ella blinks. Then, her mind begins to churn the information, turning it around and trying to find a shady underbelly that doesn't seem to exist. As long as she isn't forcing lust, as long as this so-called love potion will eliminate the barriers between the faeries - namely Sulpicia's pride and Aro's stubbornness - then Ella can't really see anything wrong with the idea. Because in every way that matters, Aro and Sulpicia have the potential to _work_. She can see it in the way their lifelines vibrate at the same frequency; she just has to make _them_ see it too, without all that other bullshit in the way.

Ella straightens up, nodding decisively. "Peter, you might actually be a genius," she says as she passes by him on her way back out of the shop.

"Where are you going?" Jane calls to her back.

"Need to see a druid about a thing," Ella says over her shoulder, right before she _pops_ to Carlisle's house.

(And she doesn't stick around to see it, but Jane tells her all about it later:

"There goes my prickly cactus of a bestie," he says with pride as he watches her leave. Then, turning to Jane, he mimes wiping a tear off his face. "They grow up so fast!"

Ella is too elated by the success of the druidic brew sitting on the loft's kitchen table to even be annoyed that Peter called her cactus. He's probably right, anyway.)

* * *

 **A/N: Really, though, I _was_ kind of surprised by how many of you thought I'd use a love potion to solve this riddle. I mean, it's not a bad thing, but I can't wrap my head around how a love potion can be anything _other_ than a mind-altering substance that is specifically designed to tamper with free will. And given the general stance of this story is everyone deserving a right to safety and freedom and choice, and especially given Ella's experiences with substances _and_ her thoughts on consent...I just couldn't see her pulling a Merope Gaunt and using a love spell as a genuine method of getting her way. We all saw what happened to Tom Riddle Sr. and I, for one, don't want to make a place for Tom Riddle Jr./He Who Shall Not Be Named/You Know Who into this little verse. **

**However, the movie _Love Potion No. 9_ does find a neat way around my personal taboo about love potions and I am shamelessly using that nuance in this story.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	166. part 11: 9: the faerie trap

**nine**

 **the faerie trap**

* * *

Ella has - rightfully - deduced that the problem with Aro and Sulpicia's ability to get along all boils down to one thing. Ego. It's all about ego and how there's too much ego between them for any sort of progress to be made.

And so she convinced Carlisle to brew a potion that temporarily removed or muted someone's ego, which is a lot easier said than done. Ella's glad that Carlisle's experienced hands were the ones to do all the actual labor of chopping and stirring and shredding; all Ella really had to contribute was a fair kick of magic during the brewing process, which is a relief. Even living alone, she can't do much more than make overcooked eggs and slightly burned toast and, honestly, for all of Jane's wonderful qualities, she isn't any better in the kitchen.

Thank Christ for take-out.

Ella has thought long and hard for the right way to administer the - for lack of a better descriptor - love potion to Aro and Sulpicia. Any fae worth their wings isn't going to trust a drink given to them by someone like _Ella_ , and that severely limits her options. She isn't entirely sure what she should do until her fingers brush over the filmy headache patch stuck to her skin - and then like a bolt from the blue, inspiration strikes.

A patch. It's perfect; temporary, easy to use, easier to conceal, and responsive to _only_ her magic if she that is how she crafts the sigil. She changes into an oversized sweatshirt she _might_ have liberated from Anthony's closet and _pops_ into the kitchen to grab the vial of brew and then right down to the basement, feet bare as she pads to the work bench and sets her fingers alight with magic. She entertains the thought of creating a new sigil cluster just for this purpose, but discards the thought just as quickly. Carlisle's brew will be strong enough, she's certain. The brew will remove the ego barrier and, written in a liberally large rune for _honesty_ , she's confident that the physical lust that _does_ exist between the two faeries will be enough to fulfill her favor to Aro.

Because _fuck it_ if Ella is going to continue this matchmaking malarkey. She is definitely _not_ cut out for it.

By some twist of fate - or, as it happens, Sulpicia's tenacity in the face of repeated rejection - Ella meets up again with Aro and Sulpicia the next day. She arrives at Sam's Diner on foot, glaring up at the partially cloudy sky and trying not to think of it as an omen for the day, the patches hidden in the pocket of her fringe leather jacket. Emily, bless her, already has a tall paper cup of black coffee waiting on the counter with Ella's name on it and shoots Ella a sympathetic look when she cringes at the faint bickering happening on the other side of the diner.

Admittedly, Ella hasn't really taken the time to get to know Emily and Sam very well, but their diner is a central location in the town and Emily seems to have made very good friends with Jane. Emily is pretty in an approachable sort of way, a long braid down her back and a heavy smattering of freckles on one side of her face, her skin as warm as pecans and her eyes kind. Sam, usually hidden in the kitchens, is a hulking beast of a man who wears the same vaguely-stained white apron every day and subscribes loyally to the lumberjack look. Ella has a tab going at the diner that extends to anyone who picks up food for _The Magic Shop_ and for that reason, she's been more than a little lax in letting the food come to her. But she really _should_ get out more. The diner, when it isn't populated by vexing faerie courtships, is a pretty chill place.

And the coffee is sublime.

Ella spares a moment to greedily drink a few scalding mouthfuls of coffee before raising a brow to Emily. "How long have they been here?"

Emily, cleaning the counter with a wet rag, grimaces faintly. "Only a few minutes, but long enough for the female faerie to deduce that, and I quote, _mortal dining establishments are infested with disease_."

"Bitch," Ella mutters under her breath. She lifts her coffee and steps away from the counter, dipping her head somewhat apologetically. "I'm dealing with them."

"I know," Emily says simply, inclining her chin to Ella's coffee, indicating the to-go cup. "That's why that coffee has one foot out the door."

Emily is probably a bit more gifted than she lets on.

Shoring up her considerable determination, Ella strides over to the table that Aro and Sulpicia have commandeered. The two fae are dressed in the pale pastels that fae seem to favor and leaning toward each other over the table, arguing in increasingly loud tones about something Ella honestly could give zero fucks. She doesn't bother with a greeting as she places her coffee on the table and delves into her pockets for the patches, one in each hand with the sticky side facing outward.

The fae don't even spare her a glance - to their own damnation, of course, because Ella unceremoniously slaps the patches on to each of their pale foreheads with a resounding _smack_.

The result is almost instant. There's barely enough time for either of the fae to express their astonishment before their expressions suddenly go slack. They blink dazedly, Aro shaking his head just once before he sighs.

Ella's eyes flicker between them warily. She's never seen Aro or Sulpicia this quiet. It's unnerving as much as it is a relief.

And it ends all too quickly.

"You're so lovely," Aro says to Sulpicia with a sigh. "It's a shame you're such a disagreeable wench."

Sulpicia pouts. "I'm only disagreeable because I'm nervous. I've never been in the mortal realm until now. It really isn't _so_ bad, just unfamiliar."

"The mortals value love," Aro tells her. "I have found such a whimsical disposition very fascinating. Can you imagine _loving_ someone until the day you die? Marvelous."

"It does sound quite nice," Sulpicia agrees with a sad smile. "But that is not how it is done for our people. It isn't tradition."

"Tradition is useless if it hampers our progress," Aro argues smoothly. His hand reaches across the table, a single finger tracing down the back of Sulpicia's wrist as he glances at her from beneath pale lashes. "You strike me as someone who would forego tradition if given the proper motivation."

Sulpicia blushes and titters.

Ella makes a face. "I really don't need to see this," she mumbles. Because Sulpicia without her ego is this shy little thing, all hesitant and unfamiliar with the scary new world around her, and Aro without his ego is all philosophical and effortlessly flirtatious - and without the personality clashes, the fae are edging into public displays of affection that are _not fit_ for the public.

She didn't think _this_ part through enough. With a mournful glance to her coffee, Ella reaches out to close her hands around the wrists of the fae and _pops_ all three of them into Carlisle's half-empty garage. The space that used to be her studio is now evidence of Esme's efforts in reorganizing the rest of the house - and for now, it'll have to do as a place for Sulpicia and Aro to bond until the love potion patch wears off.

"I'm going to ward the garage so you can't leave until you're sober," she says to the faeries, kind of needlessly since they don't seem to be paying attention to her, let alone their new location. Ella backs out of the garage. Her last sight before she closes the door separating the kitchen and the garage is of Aro and Sulpicia making heart-eyes at each other and murmuring with their heads bent together.

"Ella?"

She doesn't turn around until after she has finished warding the garage. "Hey, Esme. Sorry to barge in. Hope you didn't need anything from storage," she says with an errant wave of her hand to the garage.

Esme's gimlet green eyes, so much like Alice's, narrow infinitesimally at the closed door. "Have you locked something in our garage?"

Ella tucks her hair behind her ears. "Just a couple of faeries who are feeling _very_ honest at the moment. Maybe a little too honest."

"I see."

"It's possible that Carlisle made the brew to temporarily dismantle pesky egos a little too strong," Ella hedges. "Or I underestimated how potent it would be when combined with my magic."

The corners of Esme's lips twitch upward. "Oh, goodness. Carlisle tried to explain it to me, but I'm afraid I didn't understand until just now," she laughs gently. Esme places her hands on her hips and only then does Ella notice that her sort of adoptive step-mother is clothed in loose jeans and a paint-stained pale yellow button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, deep auburn hair piled in a messy bun atop her head. It's like the universal home improvement outfit.

Ella winces. "You do need something from the garage, don't you?"

"A bucket of paint," Esme answers promptly. "But it's fine. I can wait for another day."

Ella scowls. "No, it's my fault," she says stubbornly. "I wasn't thinking - this was just the first place that came to mind."

"Ella, truly, I might not even get around to the baseboards today," Esme tries.

Ella sheds her leather jacket, dropping it onto a chair, and tucks her loose maroon tank-top into her jeans. She raises a brow at Esme in challenge. "I have to stick around to monitor those two _anyway_ , so I might as well make myself useful," she insists. "What color was that paint? I'll just pop in and get it."

"Alright," Esme concedes, and then she rattles off a description of where to find the paint.

It's a good thing Esme is as detailed a person as she is, because Ella has _no_ desire to interrupt the intimate conversation happening in the middle of the garage and makes herself scarce as quickly as possible after retrieving the paint. Aro and Sulpicia are getting along and that's a good thing - less of a headache for Ella, at least - but the swift turn around is definitely shocking.

Esme, despite running the Charmstone newspaper, has taken the day off to put the finishing touches on the house. Ella has been peripherally aware of Esme moving in officially with Carlisle since last Thanksgiving, but there is a permanency in the arrangement of the house that strikes a dissonant cord with the pseudo-bachelor style Carlisle had had before. There are fully sorted bookshelves and a structure to the living room beyond the couches facing the television; the bathroom shower curtain is coordinated with the soap dispenser and towels; there are actual laundry hampers in the master and guest bedroom; all the kitchenware revolves around a theme of colors; there are even rugs beneath the kitchen table and the coffee table and running in the middle of the hallway. And Carlisle's house has always been home but now it _looks_ like a home.

Ella is…happy for Carlisle. And Esme. Or at least content enough to follow Esme's directions, doing little paint touch ups in all the rooms and some magical heavy lifting in the office-den when Esme decides the desk is better served on the other side of the room. It feels good to contribute in a way that isn't inherently violent - kind of how she feels about the products she sells in the shop or the sense of pride she has when she paints something really beautiful.

Ella is good for more than destruction; she's more than her pain. Sometimes she needs the reminder.

And while she hasn't ever had a maternal figure, it occurs to her over the course of the afternoon that Esme can become that for her - someone who embodies womanhood, someone Ella can look at and think, _So, that's what it looks like to be a strong woman_. It's sort of the same when she looks at Alice or Jane and feels that sense of sisterhood. A yearning kind of awareness that seemed to skip Ella over completely during the course of her childhood. Until now, that is.

Esme makes good company once the awkwardness of the fae in the garage is gone. She tells funny stories of Carlisle in college in the 80's, this English transplant trying to do the Billy Idol punk thing but being too bookish to _really_ pull it off. She promises that there are pictures somewhere in an album that she's been keeping and Ella extracts a promise to see them in the near future. It's _good_ and _normal_ in a way Ella's life very rarely is - and whatever tiny bit of reservation that she had for Esme melts away.

And, like, Ella _knows_ she isn't great at the whole forming-and-maintaining-healthy-relationships _thing_ \- but it's something else entirely to realize exactly what she's been lacking for so long. A father she's had in Carlisle, and maybe a mother in Esme eventually. Substitutions for the dead magicians she never knew, the ones who blocked her magic for whatever reason and left Ella an orphan, a survivor in some fucked up shadowy magical war.

 _There's still that mystery to solve_ , she reflects as she strokes a white-tipped paintbrush along the baseboard in the hallway.

She should probably make peace with the idea that she'll never really know _why_ her life has been so messed up - the real reasons, at least. There's no point in trying to piece together the past when the future is always trying to bite her in the ass. It's no wonder she doesn't think about it too often, even if the thoughts do lurk in the deepest corner of her mind on nights when sleep doesn't come so easy.

If Esme notices that Ella has devolved into some self-reflecting funk that makes her fall quiet, she has enough grace to make no mention of it and instead keeps Ella's hands busy.

Eventually, though, a knock comes from the garage door, followed by Aro's voice saying, "You can release us, now."

Ella wipes her hands on the back of her jeans and twists the knob with deliberate slowness. She spies the tiny, tentative link of Aro and Sulpicia's glittering lifelines trying to merge together and raises her brows at the way Aro is allowing Sulpicia's arm to hook around his elbow. "I see you've gotten over your differences," she notes sardonically.

Sulpicia purses her lips, flicking the filmy patch at Ella. Her forehead is slightly red, like she's scrubbed at the faint mark left by the henna ink. "Yes, we have," she says primly.

"That was very devious of you, little witch," Aro remarks as he moves out of the garage, navigating effortlessly to the front door of the house.

"Yeah, well, it was either _this_ or one of you wasn't going to make it to see the light of a new day," she tells him bluntly, crossing her arms as she leans against the doorjamb to watch the faeries leave in their oddly genial manner. She quirks a brow expectantly. "This means I'm off the hook for that favor, right?"

Aro glances down at Sulpicia, a subtle softening of his icy blue eyes. "Your oath is fulfilled," he says, not looking away from the faerie attached to his arm.

Ella rolls her eyes and wanders back into the house. " _Faeries_ ," she says to Esme with a roll of her eyes., reaching down to grab her jacket off the chair.

"I take it the situation has resolved itself?"

Ella's lips tip into a wry smile. "As much as anything in Charmstone is resolved," she answers, flipping her hair over the lapel of the jacket."Thanks for being so cool about…all of this."

"Anytime, Ella," Esme says with a warm smile.

And honestly, Ella believes her at face-value - which is probably the strangest part of the entire day.

* * *

 **A/N: She's growing up so fast! Hello, self-awareness, thy name is Ella. Or something. Anyway, excepting a few interludes, this is the end of part 11, otherwise known as the arc where Ella unwittingly became a matchmaker - and yet it still moved the plot forward. Go figure.**

 **A certain reader gave me the idea for this chapter title - clearly, you're more clever than I am!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	167. part 11: interlude

**interlude**

* * *

He knows better by now that Ella does _not_ do well with a verbally guided meditation - his voice is enough to throw her concentration off and, after nearly a month of these sessions, Alec doesn't want to do anything to hinder her progress. She has worked hard for this, completely dedicated herself to the task in a way that is nothing short of admirable.

Of course, nobody would ever accuse Ella of being an avid learner. She is, however, stubborn enough that she is unwilling to accept failure. Ultimately, he has found that this means whatever progress she makes in balancing her magic will be decidedly dissimilar to his own results. For Alec, meditation is about finding the harmony of his magic; for his niece, it seems she is better-suited to a self-contained storm.

He thinks it is an apt description.

From his own position with his legs folded underneath his body, Alec watches as Ella's shoulders relax in tiny increments - so tiny, in fact, that it is only his hawkish diligence to monitoring her that allows him to observe it. For a second, his eyes flicker over to the raven who has taken up residence on the windowsill, head tilted as she watches her mistress with keen interest. Seeing Raven turn up, Alec is suddenly more confident in Ella's progress - even Ella's familiar has felt the change in her magic.

Alec can feel it, too. It isn't the suffocating pressure Ella unleashed when they first met, but rather a thin weave stretching through the room not unlike a spider's web, settling almost weightlessly over the loft. Ella's hair lifts in an unseen wave and behind her closed eyes, there is a shine of silvery light, which is mimicked on the shattered magician's glass worn around her wrists.

Ella has scars - terrible, horrifying, upraised scars of esoteric sigils marring the flesh of her arms, creeping up from the back of her hands all the way to her elbow. He knows what caused them, now, and feels honored that she allows him to see them. Alec doesn't think many people have. He's sure it means that Ella trusts him. He doesn't want to do anything to betray that hard-won trust. Ever.

She has had such a distinctly unkind life. And yet, she is usually restless, like peace is a foreign concept that she cannot find comfort in. She must always be _busy_ with something. Ella says it is because there is _no rest for the wicked_. Alec isn't sure how much he believes her at face-value, but he can also concede that she isn't _wrong_ , either.

Hence, the quiet self-contained storm of her magic coming into balance. It is very much the efforts of trial-and-error. Ella is not _made_ for the harmonization that Alec had been trying to teach - but they have found that full emersion into her magical core has wrought greater results than can be imagined.

And it's all coming to fruition.

He can sense the tumultuous churn of her magic - it makes his lungs seize, just for a second, before she gets the darkness under control again with another flare of light behind her closed eyes.

She's doing very well.

Raven's beak clicks, a noise directed to him, and he nods. "I know," he murmurs, looking toward the clock.

 _Five more minutes and then she must resurface_ , Akira supplies, a warm shiver between his shoulders.

 _I'm confident in her ability to find her way back_ , he says to his familiar, firm and brooking no argument.

Ella trusts in Alec and, in return, Alec trusts in Ella. And that means trusting in her abilities, her instincts, and the _goodness_ he knows is far greater than any underlying force she possesses. She will not allow the storm inside to consume her.

Four minutes later, Ella's lashes flutter in a sooty fringe against her cheek; when she looks up, shoulders slumping in fatigue, her eyes are still shining silver, moonlight glowing out of the bronze sand dune of her skin. Perspiration gathers at her brow, which she chases away with the back of her hand. "Done," she sighs.

Alec inclines his chin. "How do you feel?"

"Tired," she says flatly. "But…better. I guess."

His lips twitch at her reticence. "Then _I guess_ that's good."

"Are you teasing me?" Ella wonders in mock surprise. _"You?"_

"I've been known to make a joke from time to time."

"Yes, but surely this must mean that the apocalypse is nigh," she retorts. Ella holds her arm out, silently beckoning Raven to perch on the round bone of her wrist; she trails a finger down Raven's beak and Alec wonders what it must be like to have a familiar who is _always_ corporeal. He thinks it must be lonely, in a way, except that Ella is _not like Alec_ and enjoys a margin of space.

And when Ella and Raven lock eyes, he thinks that their familiar bond is one that is unabashedly fitting. As a symbol, raven's tend to represent change and transformation; they are messengers; they are omens, often of ill-tidings; they also represent rebirth. All things that Alec has come to associate with his niece.

Observing them, both he and Akira share an abrupt sense of wariness. Alec has come to recognize that thoughtful expression on Ella's face and the anticipation is not uniquely positive. "What is it?" he asks, drawing her attention.

Ella lifts a shoulder nonchalantly. "It's nothing."

"You've had a thought," Alec accuses.

Ella's slow smile is nothing short of sly. "It _has_ occurred to me that it might be useful to learn how to control time," she reveals casually.

A beat passes. Then another. And then Alec rears backward, rolling his ankles beneath his body as he gapes at Ella. "That…you want to…That isn't…"

He can't find _words_.

"It isn't possible?" Ella scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Please. If you can teach _me_ how to meditate, then I can learn how to hit the pause button on time. I'm pretty sure I got close once before and, really, it just seems monstrously useful."

And the thing is, Alec realizes with a breathless sense of dismay, Ella is _right_. It would be useful, especially for peace-keeping.

It just…hasn't been _done_. By _any_ magician. Ever.

But then, he recalls bleakly, Ella isn't just _any_ magician. On top of having the boon of neutral magic and being magically strong, she also hails from _two_ magical bloodlines. And as she's already proven with her ability to _teleport_ , Ella is no stranger to breaking the laws of both magic and physics as she sees fit.

All Alec can wonder is how long it will take for her to master this newest task she has set for herself.

 _Two weeks_ , Akira says resolutely.

 _Three_ , Alec counters, only realizing belatedly that he's entered into a _bet_ with his _familiar_ about how soon his niece is going to monumentally defy every natural law there is.

How…extraordinary.

* * *

 **A/N: So, one or two more interludes before this arc is completely wrapped up. Stay tuned!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	168. part 11: interlude interlude

**interlude**

* * *

Her skin is hot under his hands, a dusky flush working its way up her chest and into her cheeks. Heavy-lidded eyes track his movements as he drags his lips over the supple curve of her breast, pausing for a moment to flick at her nipple, which is hidden beneath that lacey black contraption she calls a bralette. Her kiss-swollen mouth tilts into a familiar smirk and then her nails are scraping across his scalp, sending a shiver of heat down his spine as she applies downward pressure to his head.

Anthony tucks his grin beneath her ribs. With his hands splayed across her waist, her hip bones rolling beneath the meat of his palm as he holds her _just so_ , he feels an unfettered swell of pride and smug satisfaction.

He is the only man to see Ella this way.

He is the only one to hear the way his name sounds on her lips, the way she gasps out _Tony_ , the way her heart stutters in her chest.

He is the only one to touch her like this, to feel the perfection of her, to feel the sharp edges softened by pleasure, to study the contrast between his pale skin and the golden warmth of her bronzed complexion.

He loves Ella in all of her manifestations - angry and ready to raze the ground with her wrath, crying with soul-deep sorrow hollowed in her bones, brave and impulsive to the point of stupidity. Considerate, even though she pretends she isn't. Caring, even though she tries to hide it. Stubborn and prideful. Reckless and paranoid. Vulnerable. Strong.

But he loves her most like this - when she is so utterly unrestrained, when she is trusting him without reservation, when she is letting herself be free, when he can chase the taste of her lips with the taste of her essence.

When he can be completely certain, even for a few fleeting moments, that she is safe and alive and _his_. When he knows, without a doubt, that he is _hers_.

His chin, raspy with a day's worth of saving, rasps against her inner thigh when he turns his head to the side, gathering precious oxygen for his lungs. His lips are slick with her essence, honeyed and tart and salty, and her thighs are quivering around his ears.

It never fails to escape him that like this, Ella is allowing herself to be placed on her back - allowing herself to essentially be trapped by him. This is more than just sex.

Anthony drags himself onto his elbows, bracketing her hips with his forearms as her slender legs press against his ribs. He props his chin over her navel, dropping a kiss there as her fingers twist in his hair again. She's looking at him in that way of hers, like she's seeing _everything_ , and he's lost but to marvel at his girl.

"I love you," he says in the quiet of the aftermath. "More than words can possibly express."

Ella twines their fingers together, an unmistakably tender expression on her face. "Your soul speaks for itself," she tells him. "It's nice to hear all the same."

She's already said it - and she shows it in each moment they are together.

And right now, in this second, its so easy to forget the rest of the world. Too easy to forget anything except for them.

(But though her gaze is languid with the afterglow, it doesn't erase the wan sleeplessness that has begun to shadow her eyes. And Anthony begins to worry - silent and watchful.)

* * *

 **A/N: He's such a _sap_. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	169. part 11: interlude interlude interlude

**interlude**

* * *

It's October and this is the _second_ time Peter has been conned into joining what he unequivocally _must_ refer to as Girl's Night. Damn his regrettable enthusiasm for Chubby Hubby; once again, he has caved under the persuasive power of the aforementioned ice cream, which he is only given after Bree has made it a point to make cheddar pop corn under the guise of _early holiday spirit_.

Halloween is, like, an entire month away. Bree just has a cheese obsession and she isn't very stealthy at hiding it. Peter would know - he has a werewolf nose, after all, and Bree kind of sucks at getting rid of Cheeto evidence. But he's not going to be the one to point out the streaks of powdered cheese on her ass. Nope, he's just going to mind his own business and eat his ice cream and try not to feel like such a frakking cliché.

Hell, he's not even fooling himself. He might as well have _Gay Best Friend_ stamped on his forehead.

Not that he's, like, _bummed_ about that, or anything. All in all, _his_ best friend is a certified badass and there isn't anything to be ashamed about for being Ella Cullen's self-appointed bestie - not even his automatic invite to girl bonding activities.

Except, wait.

"No," he protests after squinting at the screen and the tell-tale opening monologue of a jolly pumpkin. "No, I thought I heard _Halloween movies_. Bree, explain yourself!"

Alice rolls her eyes, taking a long sip of Sprite - the effect is somewhat ruined by the fact that she's drinking through a Twizzler instead of a straw. Banshee or not, Peter can't quite take _candy straw_ _drinkers_ seriously.

Bree, the utter fucking troll, feigns confusion. "What? This _is_ a Halloween movie."

"It's Halloweentown," he says flatly.

"Exactly. A Halloween movie," she insists. "A Halloween themed movie, made for TV by our future overlords, the great people of Disney. Classic media for all us 90's kids who prefer something lighter than those B-rated horrors you won't shut up about."

" _Scream_ is not a B-rated horror movie!" Peter counters loudly, genuinely affronted.

Jane giggles at him, because Janie is a pure soul and doesn't understand that Bree is _evil_ and out to _corrupt them all_ with her child-friendly movie taste. Ugh.

"Uh huh," Bree agrees facetiously, waving what _appears_ to be a pretzel dipped in queso at him. "And the whole Darth Vader reveal was _super_ surprising."

"Heathen!" Peter cries, jumping up from his seat to point an accusing finger at Bree. "A heathen _and_ a liar!"

"Your ice cream is in the freezer," Alice chimes in helpfully.

Sitting beside Alice with a nail file, Lillian doesn't even bother to look up as she says, "Bring mine, too. If I'm eating massive amounts of calories, I'm not wasting it on anything other than _Phish Food_."

"Oh, ditto on that," Bree says around a mouthful of food.

"You're all equally horrible," Peter declares firmly. The girls are unmoved, except for Jane, who has a silly little grin on her face. "Hey, where is Ella? She's missing all this."

"Basement," Jane supplies. A tiny furrow makes its mark on her forehead. "She's been having trouble sleeping, I think."

Alice turns to stare at Jane, a flicker of _something_ in her expression.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Knowing Ella, _too interesting._

"I'm going to go get her," he announces. "And then she'll tell all of you that we're going to watch something with lots of fake blood and you'll have to listen because the boss is the boss."

Of course, that isn't really _why_ he's going down to the basement, but even Bree is tactful enough to not comment on the waft of worry that Peter knows his scent is positively screaming about at the moment.

He's right to be worried - he realizes it the second he sees Ella that she isn't as hale and hearty as she usually is. Oh, sure, she doesn't have that harried sense of livewire energy that presents about as subtly as barbed wire and she isn't actively bitching about Alec's _centering exercises_ like she has been for the past few weeks. Peter is well aware that her magic is balanced again, or whatever. He brought her one of his mother's poppyseed muffins as a congratulatory present the other day.

This is different.

Ella seems _tired_.

"Hey, boss lady," he says, softly so he doesn't startle her or anything. He chucks his thumb over his shoulder. "You're missing the lamest Halloween movie in existence. If you don't hurry, I just know that Bree is going to insist on a marathon - and there are _three more_ of those Halloweentown movies. Don't make me suffer alone."

Ella frowns. "Is it that time already?"

"You need a watch, friend. It's been _that time_ for, like, almost an hour."

Ella makes a sound that could be construed as a grunt of acknowledgement and Peter rubs at his jaw. Should he be concerned about her? Like, more than usual? His keen nose can detect his alpha's scent _all over_ Ella - real subtle, Anthony, seriously - so he guesses that maybe her apparent fatigue derives from a late night of sexapades. Really, Peter isn't a stranger to _those_ kind of sleepless nights now, even if Riley _does_ bitch (half-heartedly) about needing his beauty sleep, or whatever.

But Jane _did_ say that Ella has been having trouble sleeping, right? They live in the same place and sleep in the same space often enough that Jane would probably know.

And it isn't like Peter hasn't known Ella to pull an all-nighter or four if a desperate situation calls for it. Just, like, there _isn't_ anything going on in the town right now that would explain this. Aside from the ever-looming possibility of The Order of Goddamn Mordred finally coming after Uncle Alec, it's a point of fact that All Is Quiet On The Western Front.

Peter ventures closer, studying the dark circles forming beneath Ella's eyes. Admittedly, he's had the distinct pleasure of seeing Ella after waking and he's no stranger to the raccoon eyes that happen when her love of dark eyeliner wins a battle with a washcloth - but again, this isn't that.

"You okay, El?"

She raises a brow at him and looks at Peter like _he's_ the weird one. "What? Yeah, I'm fine. God, I just lost track of time."

"Yeah, okay," he agrees lightly with a bob of his head. "But, like, I'm serious about the movie thing. You'd better get up there before we all have to sit through every cringe-worthy iteration of Marnie Piper's love life."

Ella snorts. "If you hate these movies so much, how do you know so much about them."

Peter absolutely does not blush, because that would be incredibly damning.

He does, however, wait until Ella is halfway up the stairs before he pulls out his phone and types out a message to _Oh Alpha, my Alpha_. Like, just to check that everything is okay.

There's nothing wrong with _checking_ , is there?

* * *

 **A/N: Okay, I know _Peter_ trashed the Halloweentown movies, but I'm not even going to lie - they're my _favorite_ Halloween movies and I watch them every October without fail, along with a bunch of other Disney movies (Phantom of the Megaplex and Don't Look Under the Bed). Speaking of Disney Channel movies, has everyone seen Zombies? If you haven't and you can, then you _should_. It's absolutely worth it. I love movies marketed to children because of the underlying message they all have and Zombies is _so good_ at that. Plus, it's a musical, so win-win all around.**

 **As always, be brutally honest, I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	170. part 11: interludeinterludeinterlude

**interlude**

* * *

If Alice had entertained the thought that Jane Evans, with her blue eyes and special ivy bracelet, would ever _replace_ her in the tenuous sisterly relationship Ella and Alice share, then she would have been very wrong. Alice has no reason to entertain thoughts of jealously. Moving aside the fact that a year ago she hadn't even _wanted_ a sister, then what remains is the undeniable truth that Ella isn't big on people in the first place - and for that reason, she certainly doesn't have a problem juggling a multitude of relationships, regardless of how similar they are.

What Alice is to Ella is different than what Jane is to Ella. Similar, but different shades of the same color.

And whether she realizes it or not, it _means_ something to Alice that when Ella is struck by the need to do something decidedly girly, she doesn't turn to anyone else. She comes straight to Alice - nobody else.

Which is why the first day in October where Alice doesn't have a morning class, she is only marginally surprised to fine a silver fiery message waiting over her bed for when she wakes. A message from Ella, wondering if Alice is free to go to the salon. Well, in distinctly less polite terms, but Alice is fluent in Ella-isms by now and can read between the magical lines.

"You really need to get a cellphone," are the first words that come out of Alice's mouth when she meets Ella just outside of Sam's Diner.

Ella hands Alice what turns out to be a pumpkin spice latte. "I have a cellphone," she says.

"And, what, you don't know how to use it?"

Ella smirks. "My way is faster."

Alice silently agrees to disagree.

They go to the salon, where Alice isn't the least bit surprised to learn that Ella wants to lob off all the hair that's grown over the summer to return her dark waves to the chin-skimming bob she'd adopted in the late spring. Alice opts for a trim on her pixie cut, which she was due for anyway.

"Your timing is remarkable," she says to Ella once their hair has been washed, cut, and dried. Now, they are seated side-by-side with their feet soaking for pedicures. Alice relaxes easily into the warm chair, feeling the stress of her second-to-last semester in school drain away. Anyone who claims majoring in journalism is _easy_ is both naïve and a rotten liar.

"So I've been told," Ella murmurs.

The words are spoken soft enough that Alice's idle thoughts on nail polish - she's thinking a matte gray - fall away. She turns her head to see that while Ella has practically melted into the heated cushions of the massage chair, there is a sort of tension in her face that seems disparate from the relative serenity of Charmstone's lone salon. Nobody should look so tense with the amount of lavender that's wafting through the air.

She doesn't think Ella even _realizes_ it. There's something about how _set-in_ the tension looks that speaks of being comfortable with it - and with a muted sense of trepidation, Alice realizes how much pressure Ella has been under. The entire year hasn't been easy to any of them, but especially for Ella. Soon, it will be the anniversary of the day that the hag kidnapped Ella and kick-started all this awfulness.

Alice can't even imagine what the weight of something like _that_ must feel like. She doesn't want to know.

She opens her mouth, maybe to tentatively bring up the subject of Ella's continued therapy, and that's when she hears it.

The Whispers.

Alice's eyes squeeze shut. She wishes it were an option to reject the Whispers, as if it were as easy as choosing not to answer the phone. But that isn't the way it works.

And so Alice listens with a drawling sense of dread, her fingers curling over the arms of the chair as the wispy whoosh of voices coagulate and grow louder, a sound heard by her ears alone.

 _Rain, rain, go away_

 _The doomed girl will not play_

Alice can almost feel the blood draining from her face, but the Whispers keep right on singing.

 _She went to bed_

 _With an imp in her head_

 _And she'll never see another day_

Alice shakes her head, as if that were enough to rattle the Whispers out of her hears. She listens to the song three times more before the Whispers begin to fade, and by then an inescapable sense of nausea has her in a snare.

She hates this - she loathes this _gift_. It's more like a curse. And Alice knows - she does - that her strong connection to the Whispers is revered among the banshees and harbingers. Alice has a one-way communication to the other side of the veil that other banshees _wish_ they could have. Alice is _strong_ ; she's more in tune than Kate, she's more adept than her mother, and she's one of the reasons that complete disaster hasn't brought Charmstone down entirely.

And still she hates it.

She doesn't _want_ it.

She doesn't want to foretell who is going to die next.

She doesn't want to face the reality that she is probably sitting right next to _the doomed girl_ \- a _fey_ girl - a girl fated to die.

"Alice?"

Alice opens her eyes and meet's Ella's penetrating gaze.

She has no words.

* * *

 **A/N: And with that, we are wrapped for part 11. Ah, are you worried? Probably should be - like, for one, these imps are _totally_ tweaked, so there's some surprises coming down the pike. But I won't say anymore. Just stay tuned.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	171. part 12: 1: dreamer

**PART TWELVE**

* * *

 **one**

 **dreamer**

* * *

She's never been what anyone would call a _good_ sleeper. Much of her life has engendered a habit of being an especially light sleeper; she can sleep just about anywhere, but the sleep isn't so much slumber as it is a cautious nodding off until, inevitably, she is again in a cold-snap of wakefulness. When she's lucky and her sleep isn't disturbed, Ella can easily steal a few solid hours. As a matter of fact, after discovering silencing wards, Ella has _actually_ slept and in Anthony's arms, she feels that she can drop her guard enough to sink deeper into sleep.

But she is by nature a light sleeper - prone to waking at the start of a nightmare, rather than at the end, and receptive to even the lightest disturbance. Always so quick to react. If she weren't so used to it, it would be exhausting.

And that isn't to say that she has healthy sleep patterns, either. Aside from the quality of her sleep, she's very aware that she has a tendency to rely on caffeine to keep her going when she is stressed or working on a problem or whatever. She isn't a stranger to staying up for days on end if she has to, which she doesn't see as much of a problem. She's survived on less sleep when she was a street rat.

Feeling safe enough to sleep, though, is still new enough that she hasn't broken out of any of the habits formed during her childhood. So it isn't any surprise to Ella when her eyes fly open less than an hour after she went to sleep. She's instantly alert, trying to figure out what woke her, and that's when she notices three things.

First, she is struggling to breathe, like sucking air through a straw. One of the boys she'd been in a foster home with had asthma and she'll never forget the ragged, desperate gasps he made when his lungs weren't doing their job - or the way he described it in such a childishly simple way as having _a too-small straw_. Her lungs feel ineffectual.

Second, her body feels _heavy_. Weighed down by lead, or something. Her mind is wide awake, but the rest of her is _sluggish_ , like she's trapped in quicksand. And beyond the clog of her lungs, her chest and neck feel especially tight, like an elephant is sitting on her sternum. Ella isn't a stranger to the strangle of panic striking through her veins and she knows that panic is experienced in many different ways, but _this_ isn't panic, she doesn't think.

Third, however, is the most alarming. There is a face above hers, an apparition of a squat, gnome-like creature with a large nose, thin and crinkly white hair standing out from its head, and two bulging violet-red eyes set into a sunken, sallow-skinned face. And even as it smiles at her with a curious lack of teeth, Ella can _see right through it_. It isn't quite tangible, and yet it is, because the creature has its hands wrapped around her neck - and no wonder she can't breathe.

It's sitting on her chest and strangling her in her sleep - in a room warded by her magic - with a touch that is both atrociously hefty and light as a feather.

Ella calls her magic up, a swell of power that shines silver out of her eyes, and it's enough to force the creature off of her. It releases a shrieking giggle as it dissipates, no more substantial than a line of smoke, and the sound _does something_ to her ears or to her head because in the next second, everything goes dark -

Ella wakes with a start, a gasp flying from her lips as she sits up, pushing shaking hands through her hair. Her mouth is dry and her eyes are gritty, wide as they fly around the room, searching for _something_. But Ella is completely alone in her loft bedroom.

She frowns to herself, tracing a hand down her throat.

She could have _sworn_.

But nothing hurts; she can breathe easy; and her magic tells her that everything is alright.

Still.

 _Raven?_

 _Yes?_

 _Where are you_? Asking that same question to anyone else, Ella might have cringed at the tinge of neediness apparent in her tone. But she is asking _Raven_ , her familiar who is as much a part of Ella as Ella's own limbs. No need to put on a brave face or hide behind a mask.

Raven's returning answer is swift. _Over Beacon Lake._

 _Is there something going on out there?_ Ella asks, ready to latch onto _anything_ that can explain that disquieting dream she's just had - it felt so _real_ , like it was actually happening.

But Raven's response is negative. _No. I am merely flying. Why? What has upset you?_

 _Just a dream, I guess_ , Ella says.

 _Another of the same_? Raven wonders.

 _No_ , Ella decides swiftly.

No, it wasn't the same bad dream at all. Most of Ella's bad dreams now are the shards left over from all of her various ordeals - the haunting voice of the hag whispering _dearie_ , Vera's eyes as she swam to her own death, reliving a hundred pixies dying again and again. Those are usually the nightmares that keep Ella rising early and working toward her next goal, whatever it may be.

But this was different. It felt so visceral and even as the image of that _creature_ is quickly fading from her mind like sand through a sieve, she can't quite shake it off. She's disturbed enough that she stands and pads down the spiral staircase to the bathroom, peering anxiously at her reflection in the mirror. She doesn't know what she expects to see, but her throat is unblemished. In fact, the only evidence of her nightmare is the wanness of her complexion, emphasized only by the growing shadows of sleeplessness beneath her eyes.

Ella leans against the sink, taken by a sudden weariness in her knees, her forehead pressed against the mirror and her fingers clutched around the basin. She winces at the too-loud sound of her magician's glass bracelets tinkling against the ceramic and closes her eyes, breathing out a heavy breath.

 _It was just a dream_ , she tells herself.

Only a dream.

A bad dream, sure. But Ella has plenty of cannon fodder for bad dreams, doesn't she? She's seen _some shit_ and plenty of it has been weird enough that it isn't all that surprising that her mind has begun conjuring up fresh new horrors. Hadn't she heard somewhere that dreams are the subconscious mind trying to make sense of day-to-day life? That's _all_ it is. It has to be.

Except, deep down, she knows this isn't exactly the first time she's woken from a dream that left her breathless and on the verge of panic. The last time it had been this bad, she'd gone on a month-long alcoholic bender in an effort to shut herself off and, really, that had been more damaging than it was strictly worth.

And if she's being very honest, she hasn't _wanted_ to sleep over at Anthony's dorm for the past few days. She's been too on-edge for reasons she can't even fathom, so busy trying to wrap her mind around mastering time control that she just knows she would have interrupted her wolf's sleep. And while Tony certainly _is_ a heavy sleeper, she also knows that he's exceptionally tuned into her biological rhythms and if she _were_ sleeping next to him, there's no way he wouldn't be woken up, too. And he's taking a full course load this semester, so the last thing he needs is to be distracted by _more_ of Ella's bullshit.

She opens her eyes, staring at herself up-close in the mirror. "I'll make an appointment with Kebi," she mutters, locking her jaw in determination.

She doesn't need to bother anyone with this weirdness except for her therapist.

* * *

 **A/N: *smiles innocently and whistles inconspicuously* Boy, _that_ was really _weird_ , huh? **

**Welcome to part 12, everyone!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	172. part 12: 2: careful what you wish for

**two**

 **careful what you wish for**

* * *

Ella is reeling - and growing more annoyed by herself by the second.

God, but didn't she learn already? Back when she first started therapy with Kebi, she was motivated by trying to figure out what was _wrong_ with her, why she was so fucked up, and she got answers. Borderline personality disorder with antisocial features. She had a label for her hair-trigger reactions; she had a thing to point to and explain, _yes, this is why I'm raging, why I'm taking the measure of people, why I've put such importance on trust_ , _why my impulse control is so utterly shitty, why self-destructing seems to be the best way to cope with anything._ And knowing that, putting a name to it, made it _real_ in a way that experiencing it didn't; she's been able to _work_ with it, learn how to identify those negative behaviors and self-regulate.

Therapy has helped Ella learn how to _be_ Ella. Not just how to exist as Ella; not just how to survive as Ella; but how to _live_ as Ella, this person with more baggage than an airline, trying to wade through the completely _unreal fuckery_ that her life has become.

And that's all good and everything - really - but she's known in the back of her head that it's all been building toward something else. All the while she's been learning how to regulate, she's also been trundling through disaster after disaster, and with less and less time to _deal_ with the aftermath, it's all been gnawing at her. She's been backsliding.

Knowing herself, she probably wouldn't have done anything about it if the dreams hadn't started.

Well, not dreams. She should call them what they are. Nightmares. Or, as Kebi gently pointed out, _night terrors_. Because hell, don't _night terrors_ go just _fucking great_ with the words _acute stress disorder_.

Ella can only commiserate silently that she seems to be growing a collection of psychological disorders. As always, it seems she's more screwed up than she thought. At this point, it shouldn't be surprising, but it is. Again, her _issues_ seem more real now that she has a name for it.

 _"Given the traumas you continually experience, Ella, you have been in a constant state of acute stress for nearly a year,"_ Kebi had pointed out, not unkindly _. "Your description of these nightmares you've been having ring very strongly of the flashbacks associated with traumatic stress, but they are to be expected as your mind tries to reconcile your reality, and I can help teach you coping mechanisms. However, this night terror you've had recently speaks to a more concerning matter - your continued exposure to traumatic and stressful events. You will continue to have acute stress responses and symptoms for as long as you are maintaining your lifestyle - and one day, it is possible that your acute stress will evolve into post-traumatic stress…._ "

Admittedly, Ella had kind of tuned Kebi out at that point. Because while she's walking away from her therapy session with a better understanding of what's going on in her own head, she's also walking away with a tiny kernel of shame - because _once again_ , Ella's head is all screwed up. She can't help comparing herself to her friends. Everyone else has gone through the same shit, more or less, but none of them are even half as fucked as Ella.

She's just _that_ special, isn't she?

Ella finds herself stalking through the Viridity campus, not even properly looking at where her feet are taking her as she lets herself fall further and further into self-deprecation - like she's slipping on down the rabbit hole. So, for the first time in a _long_ time, Ella doesn't notice Anthony until he's already standing right in front of her, warm hands gentle on her shoulders.

Fuck, no, she didn't want to run into him yet. She isn't ready. She doesn't know _how_ she's going to tell him that on top of all the other stuff, she's also some kind of psychological ticking time bomb. Souls melded together or not, one day he's going to reach the tipping point - and then he'll leave, he'll be done with her and all her bullshit, and she'll have to figure out how to pick up the pieces. It's a fear she hasn't been willing to acknowledge until now and it _sucks_.

Anthony ducks his head down to catch her eye, stubborn in the face of her resolve to not _really_ look at him until she gives in with a terse sigh. He frowns at her, brow knit together, and drops his hands from her shoulders to hold tangle their fingers together. "Ella, sweetheart, what is it?"

Sweetheart.

Nobody calls Ella sweet except for Tony. If she didn't know any better, she'd think he had some kind of serious brain injury to in _any_ version of reality think that she, Ella Cullen, is anything remotely close to _sweet_. Bittersweet, maybe, and only on a really good day.

Something in her fractures, a tiny fissure of weakness that has her squeezing his fingers as tightly as she can and staring up at him with a blooming pit of anxiety as all of her self-directed anger melts away. "Tony," she says shakily and stops.

She doesn't know what else to say - words aren't coming. Ella is a muddled mess and she's been keeping secrets, distancing herself from him just enough to shield him from this new _thing_ that's happening to her. And she's so very tired.

He's careful with her as he guides her to a nearby tree away from prying eyes, coaxing her to sit in his lap and try to phrase everything that's been going on with her. "I know you've been dealing with something," he says softly, cupping the back of her head as she talks into the base of his neck. She's not crying - thank God - but she also can't bring herself to look him in the eye, either. For all her talk about honesty, she's a fucking liar. "Whatever it is, we deal with it together. You know that by now, don't you?"

She releases a shivering breath. "I'm such a mess," she says after re-hashing everything Kebi had said and the bleak vortex in her mind. "You shouldn't have to -"

Anthony takes hold of her chin, forcing her to look at him and his stern, gleaming verdant-amber eyes. "We deal with it together," he repeats firmly. "Nightmares aren't going to scare me away. _Nothing_ could ever scare me away, Ella. Not a single thing."

More than anything, she wants to believe him.

(If only it was that easy. But in Charmstone, nothing ever is.)

* * *

 **A/N: So, why did I go with acute stress disorder (ASD) rather than post-traumatic stress (PTSD)? Very simply, it is a diagnostic style of beginning with the subjectively "less" severe disorder before graduating to the higher severity and that was just a choice I made. It can be argued either way as to what Ella would be diagnosed with in the real world. However, I will say that often in fiction, writers often sensationalize PTSD or use it as a convenient plot device that completely undermines just how debilitating the disorder can be - and usually when that happens, its because there is a certain ignorance in the author. Clinically, people aren't just diagnosed with PTSD willy-nilly; in fact, most often, people are likely floated the diagnosis of ASD before graduating to PTSD. Why? Well, they have overlapping symptoms, of course, but the main one is the time parameter; ASD symptoms continue for a month following a traumatic event, after which they usually peter out as the individual adapts and copes; however, when ASD symptoms continue for _more_ than a month after the event and also grow in severity, then PTSD is the more likely diagnosis. _Also_ , it should be pointed out that like ASD, PTSD is not necessarily a _permanent_ disorder, which is another misconception people have about PTSD; for some people, PTSD certainly does last a lifetime; for others, perhaps a few years or a few decades. And finally, given the fact that _all_ of Ella's traumas have occurred so closely together - time travel notwithstanding - it is impossible to know whether or not the acute stress would eventually "go away" on its own, or if it would evolve into PTSD, because _Ella keeps having traumatic events_ and there's no telling how she would heal psychologically if given the time. But, like, if you get a bruise and you keep getting a bruise in the same place each time it starts to heal, then you're going to have the bruise for longer, right? So, that's why I didn't just go, "Oh, yeah, so now she has PTSD".**

 **Uh. Psych major rant over. Whoops?**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	173. part 12: 3: watch me corrode

**three**

 **watch me corrode**

* * *

"What's your favorite color?"

Tony stirs beneath her, prying his eyes open to peer at her in the dimness of her room. It's been a week since he'd decided - insisted - that they would deal with her night terrors together, which really meant that they were sharing the same bed _every night_ , regardless of whether or not Ella thought he needed the time to study. Her wolf is stubborn; he'd cited _werewolf constitution_ as a reason why he would survive on whatever limited sleep he could get and the first time Ella hadn't popped up in his dorm room, he'd arrived at the loft with an unimpressed stare. Message received.

But even with him wrapped around her, she can't manage more than an hour - maybe two or three tops - before the nightmares begin. He's so tuned into the rhythm of her heart and the change in her scent that he wakes up right when her dreams turn dark and he is able to wake her. She hasn't had a night terror since that first one, but the sleeplessness is beginning to wear on her in more obvious ways - peakiness and sluggishness during the day and her favorite jeans are a bit more loose, so there's weight loss, too. She feels constantly sapped of energy. Soon enough, she'll be struggling to keep up with her inventory.

Being this tired for so long isn't sustainable. But she's also a little afraid to sleep - she's beginning to dread sundown, as if she's being sent to the gallows instead of to her bed. And that's why she's bothering Tony, rousing him from his light dozing.

He's so good about it, though. He merely takes a moment to stare blearily at her, propped up on his chest with her chin level with his ribs, and then drops his head back onto the pillow. "My favorite color?" he asks around a yawn.

"Thought it would be an easier than trying to get you to pin down your favorite book," she mumbles.

"Mmm…green, I guess," he decides after a moment. Then, with a tiny smirk, he adds, " _A Wrinkle In Time._ "

"Smartass," she says with a roll of her eyes.

He drags his palm up the curve of her spine, then back down; his other reaches up to cup her cheek, thumb tracing over the high arc of her cheekbone. He's more awake now, his scarred brow knit together, burnt toffee hair wild and in need of a trim. But he wasn't kidding about that werewolf constitution. Even though he's gotten about as much sleep she has this week, he doesn't look all that tired; of course, he's been eating more often to keep up his energy, which is something that isn't working with her sudden loss of appetite. This acute stress thing _sucks_.

"Can't sleep?"

"Don't want to," she admits.

He frowns. "You have to try."

Ella shakes her head with a twist of her expression. "I feel like I shouldn't," she counters warily. "I…don't know how to describe it, but I feel like I _shouldn't_ sleep."

His thumb rubs a slow circle at the base of her spine. "Is that a magic thing?"

"No."

Maybe.

It might be - after all, there have certainly been instances where her magic has been more like a sixth sense, an early warning system, an instinct that she is helpless to follow. But is that what this is? Does her own magic want her to stay awake? With mastering the balance of her magic with Alec's meditation, Ella has definitely felt more in-tune with her magic, but that doesn't mean that magic itself isn't an abstract concept, especially in terms of interpreting extremely vague signals.

Anthony draws her closer. "Try to sleep. I'm right here."

That's right; she should take comfort in that.

Pensive, Ella tucks her head beneath his chin and shuts her eyes, focusing on the beat of Tony's heart beneath her ear - a steady thump that couples nicely with the warmth of his body and the softness of her sheets. By all accounts, she's very comfortable and _should_ be able to sleep, but her mind is awake and her magic is moving restlessly beneath her skin.

She's sensing _something_.

Or is her mind playing tricks on her?

Ella slows her breathing and counts backward from one hundred. She focuses on the bond of her lifeline to Tony's, on the _comfort-safety-love_ she can feel exuding from him, on the slow pass and press of his hand on her back. She keeps her eyes closed and against the will of her magic - and probably from sheer exhaustion - she is lulled into a light slumber.

Big mistake.

It seems like as soon as sleep truly claims her, Ella leaves herself open to the attack.

She can't breathe - she can't move - something is _killing_ her - and then there is the chilling laugh and a flash of violet-red eyes and the creature of before is standing on her shoulders, gnarled hands closed around her throat -

Ella screams, eyes flying open as she scrambles away. She falls backward off the bed, banging her elbow against the hardwood. Her eyes are darting all around the room, trying to find the apparition, but the only thing in her room is Tony, reaching for her and looking at her over the side of the bed with this expression torn concern and shock. Her hand presses against her tender throat, but she just _knows_ that if she looks in the mirror, her skill will be as unblemished as before.

"Ella? Ella, what happened?"

Futilely, she tries to get a grip on her panic, but she can't seem to stop her heart from racing, blood pounding in her ears. She feels like she's been electrocuted, chest heaving and limbs quivering incessantly. "Did you see it?" she demands once she can wrap her tongue around words. "Did you - it was _here_ \- Did you _see_ it?"

Anthony has followed her to the floor and so carefully, like she's made of glass, he draws her against his chest, arms wrapped firmly around her shivering body. He's anchoring her, even as he answers in the negative. "I didn't see anything, sweetheart."

Tears burn at the back of her eyes. "It felt so _real_ ," she whispers brokenly.

He doesn't say anything; she has the sense that he doesn't know what _to_ say. And she can't really fault him on that. It's just a miracle that he's _here_ and that she's _awake_. God, but she should have listened to her magic - or rather, her intuition.

But then, right as Ella has begun to convince herself that her own brain is gaslighting her, her cellphone chimes with a message from Alice.

 _We need to talk - all of us_ , it reads. _Something is happening._

And with a sense of impending doom, Ella starts to wonder if maybe this isn't so much a psychological problem as a _magical_ one.

* * *

 **A/N: Oh, man. Okay, like, there's _things_ happening here, but more importantly, there's a _thing_ in my oven. A delicious thing. A delicious peanut butter cookie cake thing and it needs my attention - stat. PMS is a bitch, okay. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	174. part 12: 4: see the signs

**four**

 **see the signs**

* * *

She meets Alice on Friday at the weekly town meeting. They sit in the back at Alice's direction and spend twenty minutes watching Mayor Newton field various issues and complaints from the town folk. Ella, sipping determinedly on a tall thermos of coffee, forces herself to devote as much attention to the meeting as possible. It isn't much, honestly.

She doesn't think Alice has ever attended the town meetings, at least not since Ella and Carlisle moved to Charmstone, but she can see a certain familiarity with the way Alice watches everything unfold with a sort of resigned air of patience. It isn't until some harried-looking mother makes noises about one of her teenage sons coming down with some flu that's floating around the high school that Alice sits up and takes notice. She jabs Ella with her elbow, tilting her head and raising finely arched black brows in silent expectation.

Ella frowns in confusion. "It's just a bug or whatever," she says under her breath.

Alice shakes her head. "I don't think so," she replies, voice just barely above a whisper as she leans toward Ella's ear. "Listen to her - she just said something like twenty kids have been pulled out of school the past few weeks for being _sick_ and having trouble sleeping. Sounds like more than a flu to me."

The thing is, to Ella, it _doesn't_ sound like anything more than a particularly vicious stomach bug. But Ella isn't exactly keen on her own judgment right now and Alice hasn't ever been _wrong_. So stomach bug or not, if Alice thinks there's something hinky going on, then the chances are probably high that she's right to be worried. Plus, the sleeping thing _is_ kind of weird and hits pretty close to home, considering her own problems.

Ella turns just enough to catch Alice's gimlet eyes with a considering stare. "What have you been hearing, Alice?" she wonders in a low tone.

Around them, the meeting seems to be breaking up, all of the humans meandering out of the meeting hall and seemingly oblivious that a select group lingers near Mayor Newton - and as she watches Alice become pensive, Ella resolutely ignores the town council talking amongst themselves. Ella didn't come here for them. She came because her sister asked her to and Ella is more than comfortable with putting stock in Alice's requests by now.

"Yet another twisted nursery rhyme," Alice answers carefully. "But I can see the signs, too. Can't you? Something is happening in the town….And you can feel it, too. I know you."

"Thought it was just me," Ella mutters. She holds her thermos up and raises a brow. "I'm just…tired. I have my own thing going on. And I'm not sick, either."

Alice runs a critical eye over her. "Not yet," she says pointedly. "Maybe whatever it is effects magicians differently."

"Alec is fine."

"Even more reason to be concerned," Alice shoots back. "If Alec is fine but _you_ aren't, then that means you're being targeted, right?"

Ella snorts humorlessly. "Yeah, by my own _head_. I've got some acute stress thing, okay? I'll get over it."

Alice stares for a moment. "But you don't really believe that," she concludes.

Ella shrugs noncommittally. She isn't completely convinced either way; her late-night epiphany that _maybe_ something magical is wrong with her could be right, but it could also just be sleep deprivation warping her thoughts. All instinct aside, she also doesn't have any reason to doubt Kebi's assessment of her mental state since it rings unbelievably true.

Still, she's never seen Alice like this, tip-toeing around a subject so cautiously. "What is it? What do you know? Just spit it out, already."

Alice exhales sharply, lips pressed together into a white line. "The Whispers like to talk in riddles, so I don't know for sure," she says finally. "But I think…no, I'm _sure_ you're in danger, Ella. Something is after _you_ and it's affecting the entire town."

Maybe Ella should be more concerned about the prospect of a banshee, a harbinger of death, is basically hand-delivering a prediction of her impending demise - but she isn't. Not really. Sure, she feels a thread of grim anticipation, but beyond that she is largely unmoved. She's too _tired_ to be afraid of dying.

Ella takes another sip of coffee, side-eyeing Alice in a bid for time to scrape her thoughts together. At the front of the meeting hall, Aro seems to be _attempting_ to keep Sulpicia and Stefan away from each other, which is causing Mayor Newton to sweat even more profusely than usual while he tries to aid Kate in mediating. More importantly, Elisabeth Masen is looking over her shoulder with a furrowed brow, clearly having overheard Ella and Alice's conversation.

Ella meets Elisabeth's gaze head-on and, without looking away, says to Alice, "And this _something_ you think is after me, do you happen to know what kind of thing it is?"

"An imp," Alice breathes.

Ella pointedly turns away from Elisabeth's concerned expression - because when did _that_ change? - and wrinkles her nose at Alice. "Seriously? An _imp_? What the hell is _that_?"

Alice shrugs helplessly, eyes wide and expression openly worried.

Ella sighs and stands up.. "Whatever. I'll just call a meeting with the gang and get Peter on it," she says flippantly.

Alice hesitates, eyes darting over to the town council. "I thought…well, aren't you going to clue in everyone else?"

Ella snorts. "Believe me, they'll know soon enough," she retorts, thinking of Elisabeth Masen.

Then she yawns, kind of ruining the effect of her blasé attitude; Alice frowns fretfully at her but follows Ella out of the meeting hall and back to _The Magic Shop_. And if Alice notices that it takes Ella just a few seconds longer than normal to send off her fire messages to their gang of friends, then she has the tact not to say anything.

But the fact that her magic isn't _as quick_ to respond as usual cements Ella's belief in Alice's estimation of the mortal danger she is apparently in. Because if Ella was _only_ suffering from acute stress, she can't imagine that her magic would be effected, especially since she's probably been having acute stress for _months_ and hasn't felt any change until now.

This imp thing is exacerbating Ella's problems.

Because _of course_ it can never be just _one_ thing. It can never be _easy_.

* * *

 **A/N: See, the thing with mental illness is that it's so hard to tell whether it's all in your head or not, right? And even when you _know_ , it's still _so hard_ to change anything or to "get better". So difficult. Like, recently I've been in therapy for dysthymia (persistent mild depression) that I'v _e probably_ had since my teens and maybe even earlier, because I vividly recall a few anxious isolation incidents when I was a kid and the chances are that I had childhood depression, too and it's all just gone untreated until now because my family just thought I was "moody" and that my depressive episodes were just me wanting "attention" (Fuck you, brother mine, just a little). And even on my nifty new antidepressant, it's an uphill battle trying to _function,_ you know? Which is why I retreat to writing this story. **

**Anyway. What is an imp, exactly? Peter will find out! And it's all building toward _a huge plot thing_ in the main arc of the story, so stay tuned!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	175. part 12: 5: the goodfellows

**five**

 **the goodfellows**

* * *

"Alright!" Peter claps his hands together, swanning around the shop floor as everyone settles into various casual loitering positions, except for Jane, who is weaving around him to flick off the neon sign and lock the door. "Allow the official meeting of The Goodfellows to begin, right after I-"

"Wait, wait!" Bree interjects as she scrambles up from the floor. "Wait, who are The Goodfellows?"

Peter raises his brows and speaks very slowly. "We are. _We_ are The Goodfellows."

Ella sighs from the far end of the store where she has placed a low table surrounded by mismatched over-plush velvet chairs. She's curled up in one, knees folded to her chest so she can tiredly prop her chin up on her folded arms. Anthony is standing nearby, feet shoulder-width apart with his arms folded across his lean chest, his expression a familiar solemn mask; her sigh draws his attention and his stare drops down to her, his stoicism softening just a bit.

There's a silent message there - a bid for him to help her center this meeting, because Alice is too busy twisting her hands together in anxiety to speak up above Peter's….Peterness.

"We're the Scoobies," Bree argues loudly. "It's a nod to _Buffy!_ You can't just go changing things!"

Peter grimaces. "Yeah, it's not so much a homage to a badass vampire slayer as it is copyright infringement and, like, I don't know about _you_ , but I don't have the money to fork over to a lawyer. Like, it would be a lot, right Lillian?"

"More than any of us would see in a lifetime," Lillian confirms coolly. Emet, her kelpie soulmate still acclimating to this century, leans down to ask a question, probably so that he can have context to understand what Bree and Peter are going on about. It shouldn't be as funny as it is.

Bree groans in disgust. "Ugh, you're a _heathen_ ," she tells Peter. "And so, so _lame_. The Goodfellows? Come on."

Peter waggles his finger. " _Au contraire,_ Bumble Bree," he counters with a smirk. "It's more than appropriate. You know, because Ella is basically Robin Hood and, like, Robin might have had a band of Merry Men but we're not all dudes here and I subscribe to gender equality."

"Robin Hood stole from the rich and gave to the poor," Riley pipes in drolly. "And Robin _Goodfellow_ is actually Puck from _A Midsummer's Night Dream_."

Peter flaps his hands in the air. "Yeah, okay, that's splitting hairs, babe," he says with a whine and a pout. Then, with the sudden air of a scholar, he goes on to say, "Puck might have had an alias in Robin Goodfellow, but both the legends of Puck and Robin Hood are associated with _Goodfellow_. Actually, in 1584, one theory outright identified Robin Hood as Robin Goodfellow, which was supported by the evidence of Robin Hood's mythological origin by comparing Robin Hood's ballads to other characters - Robin Hood's feats were so impressive in the lore that its completely plausible that Puck, the trickster also known as Robin Goodfellow, took the mantle of Robin Hood for the sole purpose of providing aid to those under his care. Additionally, Puck's legend as being a benevolent trickster spirit with the intentions of doing good through chaos is obviously related to Robin Hood's habit of performing dubious deeds for the right moral reasons, which again relates both Puck and Hood to _Goodfellow_. And Karl Marx actually said, ' _In the signs that bewilder the middle class, the aristocracy and the poor profits of regression, we recognize our brave friend Robin Goodfellow, the old mole that can work the earth so fast, that worthy pioneer, the Revolution'_. In doing this, Marx essentially ties both the chaotic and trickster methods of Puck and Robin Hood to the name Goodfellow, again linking them in creed because Puck, Robin Hood, and Robin Goodfellows are all myths that denote change - and how, might I ask, is that any different than our esteemed leader? Ella is basically a walking revolution, just like all iterations of Goodfellow."

They all stare a Peter, stunned into silence by his outward show of intellect. And maybe they _are_ surprised, because Peter plays the jester, the fool, as easy as breathing. But he's probably the smartest person in any given room and she's known for _a while_ that Peter hides a lot beneath that goofy, motor-mouthed exterior. He'd been the one to break down complex subjects - physics and anatomy, as well as the nuances of magical creatures - in a way that she could understand, and that meant that _he_ had to have had a keen understanding of those subjects, too. Maybe the fact that he's going to be a historian is something that makes everyone underestimate him, but Ella hasn't been fooled for a long time.

Although, honestly, she isn't sure how she should take being compared to a _trickster_ of all things.

Peter coughs at the silence. "Plus, The Goodfellows sounds cooler."

"Jesus," Bree breathes, plopping down onto her bottom.

Riley smiles smugly and catches Peter's eye; Peter flushes darkly and fumbles for his phone, tapping at the screen as his ears turn red. "Uh, yeah, right. Uh, is everyone here?"

"Are we taking attendance now?" Ella asks dryly, watching as Peter scrolls down on his phone. "I hope you don't actually have a checklist for this."

"Of course not," he sniffs disdainfully. "That's so low-tech. I have an app."

"They make an app for everything," Jasper says, rubbing at his jaw. "But I made the Goodfellow app. Tracks our phones and shit."

And now everyone turns to stare at Jasper with some amount of incredulity, because when the shit did that even _happen_? Clearly, Peter and Jasper have been putting their brilliant heads together, but its been happening under everyone's noses. Jasper just shrugs.

Peter tucks his phone back into his pocket. "Among other things," he adds cheerfully. He looks at Ella sheepishly. "I mean, no offense, boss, but your fire messages aren't always going to be discreet enough, you know? So, like, it messages and tracks and we're trying to build a Monster of the Week interface on it, kind of like a grimorie, but backing it up is hell - _Oh, right_ , before I forget. Can we use the basement to store the server? I don't think all the smoke in Jasper's dorm is good for it."

"Do what you want," Ella says with a careless wave of her hand.

" _Awesome_ ," Peter and Jasper say at the same time.

Ella is surrounded by ridiculously smart people - or maybe just ridiculous people who happen to be smart. But if Peter is building a digital grimorie, a place to log creatures and spells, then that's one less thing _she_ has to deal with. And, honestly, she can't see anything but upsides to an app that can keep track of everyone; in the event that she was out of commission, it makes sense to have another kind of failsafe in place.

And with Alice's revelation that an imp is after Ella, it seems more and more likely that her gang - The Goodfellows - will need to be able to function without her.

She pushes away the maudlin thought and shifts in the chair, lifting a pointed brow at Anthony.

He steps forward and Peter stands down, dipping his head in deference to his alpha. "We'll talk about this later," he says before turning to Alice. "We're here because of something Alice has predicted."

Alice's face is pinched. "The Whispers predicted it - I only heard it."

Anthony is unmoved by the correction.

Alice breathes in deeply, eyes lowered as she recites the bastardized rhyme she'd hinted at back in the meeting hall.

 _Rain, rain, go away_

 _The doomed girl will not play_

 _She went to bed_

 _With an imp in her head_

 _And she'll never see another day_

Ella shivers, taken by a grim sense of foreboding. "I'm the doomed girl," she says bluntly, resolutely ignoring everything - Tony's agitated growl, the various gasps of her friends, Jane's muted _Oh, no_ \- in favor of gauging her sister shrewdly.

Alice flinches, but she does Ella the courtesy of meeting her eyes. "The Whispers seem to think so and I have no reason to believe otherwise. And you…aren't doing well, Ella."

Anthony bristles; and Ella can see how everyone is _looking_ at her, seeing the tiredness and the new sharpness in her face from weight loss.

Ella doesn't waver, because that isn't who she is. Flatly, she says, "Pair those Whispers with all those sick kids and my own issues and all signs are pointed one direction."

Alice nods.

" _Great_. Sound like fun."

Anthony frowns at her flippant response. "We need a plan," he says firmly, leaving no room for argument. "We have more clues than usual, but we're still missing pieces."

"Yeah," Bree agrees with a scowl. "Like, for example, what the _fuck_ is an imp?"

"And do we need to worry about the weather reports, or is the rain thing just for poetry?" Peter wonders.

"You really think Whispers are going to deliver a message designed around artistry?" Lillian snipes.

"Don't ask me!" Peter protests. "I'm not the banshee here! Ask Alice!"

Alice huffs. "I'm not an _expert_. The Whispers redefine the word _cryptic_. The rain could be figurative or literal."

"So we have to watch out for real rain and metaphorical rain and we shouldn't let Ella _play_? That's super clear."

"And what's this about sick kids?" Lillian demands. "This is a town-wide issue _again_? Should we be bringing it to the Mayor?"

Ella closes her eyes, listening to everyone talking over each other until their voices become white noise. She's so tired sitting there that, for a moment, she drifts away - and a second later, with a chill down her spine and a cackle in her hears, she jerks awake with a sharp gasp. Instantly, all the noise in the room dies down and it is Ella's turn to be stared at.

She steadies her breathing and meets the eyes of her soulmate, her best friend, her sisters, her uncle, and her friends. "Whatever we do," she begins lowly, ice slipping down her spine. "We need to do it fast."

That much, out of everything else, is clear.

And that is how The Goodfellows disband, all pursuing the issue from different angles. Jasper plans to hack back into the hospital records; Emet and Lillian are going to help Peter and Riley with research; Bree is going to visit the high school and see if there's a social pattern to the sickness; and Anthony is dealing with the town council.

That leaves Alice, Jane, and Alec on babysitting duty for Ella - which, of course, comes with its own challenges. The most important is how to keep Ella _awake_ until they know exactly what the hell they're dealing with _and_ how they're going to eliminate it.

Easier said than done, it turns out.

* * *

 **A/N: For a fun tidbit of trivia, Peter's little show-off speech is all factual; Puck's alias of Robin Goodfellow has indeed multiple times been linked to the legend of Robin Hood _and_ both Puck and Robin Hood legends date back to at least the 14th century, so Shakespeare and Disney can't take too much credit for the mythos.**

 **Plus, nothing brings a group together like a group name - and as has been pointed out to me recently, The Scoobies has already been taken! I like all the connotations of The Goodfellows, too. It just seems _right_. If I ever get around to publishing this, they'll call themselves that from the get-go. I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	176. part 12: 6: tea and coffee beans

**six**

 **tea and coffee beans**

* * *

Ella is _buzzing_ \- strung out with burning eyes and a splitting headache, but stubbornly awake. Almost painfully lucid, really. She feels her magic glitching, magician's vision flickering in and out, her mind _whirling_ between thoughts and spells and brief periods of thousand-yard stares before her fingers twitch and another bout of accidental magic escapes her. She hasn't burnt out this many light bulbs or shattered this much glass since she was first learning to control her magic and, now rounding out on hour 72 with nothing more than ten minute cat-naps to keep her going, she can't find it within herself to really _care_.

Carlisle watches as she lifts another handful of chocolate-covered espresso beans to her mouth, crunching on them inelegantly with wide, bloodshot eyes. He frowns deeply at her, the perfect picture of fatherly disapproval. "Perhaps not so many at a time," he suggests hesitantly.

She raises a single brow in response.

It's Carlisle's turn at babysitting Ella in the loft. Alice and Jane are napping while they can and Alec is bumbling around the kitchen, brewing yet another pot of tea. Anthony is sprawled out on the couch, eyes closed but not quite sleeping, his phone propped on his chest in the loose grip of his hand. They're all waiting for the research to conclude. Peter had uploaded an update on his group's progress onto The Goodfellows app not too long ago; he thinks that they're close to compiling all the information they need. Jasper has also been keeping everyone abreast of the situation with the hospital, where there has been a sharp uptick in hospital admissions for _acute exhaustion, dehydration, and malnourishment._ This has been confirmed by Bree's investigation of the high school. _Unless there's a trendy new eating disorder that turns people into narcoleptics, I think it's safe to say that something supernatural is dicking these kids around_ , she'd typed into the app's discussion thread.

It isn't exactly comforting to be proven right.

With a clatter, Alec sets down the glossy cobalt tea pot in the middle of the coffee table. The brew is one of Carlisle's, an herby blend of black tea, rosemary, and ginseng that Ella has been dutifully drinking every hour. She likes the feel of the warm cup in her hand since it's pretty much the only source of warmth she's allowing herself; the loft is cooled just shy of being _too_ cold so that she can stay awake. After she finishes this cup, she'll walk around the loft for fifteen minutes, have another cup, and then hopefully be awake enough that she won't feel so goddamn jittery.

"It's hot," Alec cautions.

"Who cares?" Ella shoots back. She likes the scalding temperature, the way the blistering burn rattles her mind awake.

She hasn't ever had the best coping mechanisms.

Alec stares calmly at Ella as his eyes flare bright molten gold, and with a wave of his hand, the temperature of her tea cools marginally. Any other time, she might have undone his spell, but as it is, her magic is behaving more and more erratic the longer she abstains from sleep - and the constant caffeine intake isn't _helping_ with that, even if it is protecting her from the imp getting to her in her sleep.

"Drink you tea, love," Carlisle instructs gently. "Won't be too long now, I don't think."

Ella takes another gulp and relaxes back onto the couch. At her side, Anthony's hand moves to settle on her knee, but when she glances at him all she can see is the starkness of his perfect profile and the tension in his brow.

She feels so damn guilty about all of this. About needing to be _watched_. About the rotating schedule that's keeping everyone else awake. About her combative, swinging mood and the way she feels like she's dragging all of her friends headlong into danger - along with the rest of the town - _again_. For whatever reason, this imp is after _her_ and collateral damage of narcoleptic high school students aside, Ella _should_ be the one dealing with it.

She should be strong enough to not _need_ people. She shouldn't _rely_ on them.

But she isn't that strong.

She's been…worn down, all her sharp edges blunted by time and traumas and attachments.

Part of her - a large part of her in the deepest, darkest, most broken corners of her mind - _loathes_ this new weakness. Hates it with a reckless, seething, abhorrence so pervasive she wants to rage. She can feel the shiver of a scream locked in her throat, hidden behind her teeth, and it does nothing but irritate this new destructive avenue of self-recrimination.

She can't even be sure of _how real_ those feelings are, though. Does the self-hate stem from her imp-addled mind? Or is it deeper, older and more predetermined than she realizes? It's hard to tell. She can't seem to gather her thoughts together long enough to figure out where any of this is coming from - or to reconcile how she can hate her weakness just as much as she loves the people around her.

Can she even love? She doubts it, sometimes.

She really needs _sleep_.

A jaunt around the loft is taken in pensive silence - she's moving, but she's feeling increasingly disconnected from everything. Is she even in her body anymore? It doesn't feel like it. The room is swimming and her heart is racing from too much caffeine and too little of everything else, but she can't bear to eat because choking down the tea and coffee beans is hard enough.

Ella _aches_.

She's crumbling, walking on a razor-thin wire that seems ever-closer to snapping.

She hopes she'll last.

(And at the same time, she hopes she won't. She can't _take_ this anymore - if she ever even could.)

Ella curls up on the couch with another cup of tea, forcing it down her throat as she dazedly tries to understand what Alec and Carlisle are talking about. Something to do with magic, she's sure; the two have bonded over their shared moral compass and understanding of benevolent magical theory. Ella swallows around the tightness of her throat, relishing the sear of the hot tea, and notices that Anthony seems to have fallen asleep, his head propped on the back of the couch and mouth open, chest rising slowly and evenly.

She doesn't deserve him. She doesn't deserve any of them.

She's so tired.

Her eyes are so dry. She blinks twice, ultimately ineffectual at moisturizing her eyes, and her lids grow heavy. The third blink lasts longer. The fourth has her eyes drooping. The fifth has darkness swimming around her and she sinks into it for just a second - for longer than a second - a moment, suspended in time -

" _She's coming!_ " the imp cackles, invisible hands closing around her neck.

Ella jerks awake breathlessly - and around her, the loft shudders under the violent intensity of her magic, glass popping out of the windows and the tea pot turning to ash and the air surging with a crackle of electricity. The tea cup falls out of her hand, shattering wetly against the wooden floors, and Ella retches, bent over the arm of the couch.

There is a drip of blood from her nose and a warm, familiar hand on her back. Anthony pulls her into his arms, chest rumbling with a low growl, and Ella focuses her eyes for long enough to see Carlisle and Alec huddled around the couch, each of them looking discomfited.

"It's getting worse," she says blackly, wiping at her bleeding nose with the back of her wrist. "It's in my head. It's _in me_. And it's winning."

Carlisle blanches. "Your eyes were shut for only a minute."

"Less," Alec corrects grimly. He eyes the mess that she's made with a grimace. "This doesn't bode well for your next nap."

"I think I'll skip it," she decides scathingly.

Anthony's arms tighten around her - and she can feel him through the bond of their souls, the dread that's coursing through him, and how helpless he feels against this unseen threat. Then he cocks his head, hearing something that Ella is too out-of-it to sense. "Peter's almost here."

Ella wilts.

She doesn't know if she feels relief, or not.

She doesn't even know _if_ she feels, if she's even capable of it at this point.

All she knows is that the imp is in her head, twisting her thoughts and her emotions and her _control_ , warping all of Ella's cultivated strength and bending Ella as easily as paper.

Peter better know how to kill this thing.

* * *

 **A/N: And that's why you're supposed to have a regular sleeping pattern, because sleep deprivation and too much reliance of stimulants causes all kinds of nasty chemical imbalances in the brain that make us vulnerable to mood swings, irritation, depressive episodes, and irrational thoughts. This isn't even counting the imp thing! Whoops!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	177. part 12: 7: imp or nightmare

**seven**

 **imp, nightmare, or pain in the ass**

* * *

"So, surprising exactly no one, our current beastie originates from Russia," Peter announces after he's already stumbled into the loft with Riley, Bree, Lillian, and Emet on his heels. He has a familiar over-caffeinated look to him, which is impressive given the sheer volume of coffee he had to have consumed to be even half as twitchy as he is, all bright-eyed and over-loud. Peter deposits a stack of shambled photo-copied papers onto the coffee table and raps his knuckles against the wood. "There's a shocking amount of lore that we had to work through, actually, because the first mention of these things dates back to the 6th century during some war that a few naughty witches were involved in."

"Figures that the Russians would have been the first to capitalize on psychological warfare," Lillian adds blithely.

Peter rapidly files through the stack of papers. "Totally agree with you there, Lily-pad."

"Don't call me that."

Peter ignores her. "Right, okay, where did I put the - _aha!_ Found it!" Peter crows happily, brandishing a lopsided copy of a page from what was surely a very old book; the paper is haphazardly highlighted, just like everything else, but he seems to understand the system. "So, okay, from the top - these things have a few names and there's enough conflicting information that we basically had to take a weed whacker to one of the libraries, but, whatever. For our purposes, we're going to call this thing an _imp_ , since it seems like our resident banshee has an in with the Other Side Radio-"

Alice, having just emerged from the bedroom and still soft from her nap, just frowns at Peter and seems to make a conscious decision to not correct him. Over her shoulder, Jane is staring at Peter's jabbering with wide eyes which do little to mask her concern over his _enthusiastic_ state.

"-but imps are also pretty commonly referred to as _nightmares_. Which is _super_ original, right?" Peter pauses for a beat, handing his papers to the nearest person, who happens to be Riley. Riley takes the papers with a long-suffering sigh of patience and neatly places them to the side while Peter rifles through the first stack. "Where was I? Oh - _here_ , I knew we made copies - So, cutting through all the bullshit, imps are basically designed to strike when you're guard is down and dredge up all of your most vulnerable parts and they do it in stages. First, they get you when you're asleep and then their influence starts to grow, so, like you start having more nightmares and sleeping less and then once it has you avoiding sleep, you're mind is even more open to intrusions, so it starts twisting your thoughts _on top_ of the constant nightmares. They feed off of host energy, but some of the lore says that it's possible for imps to go after a bigger populace to build their strength so that they can take on a corporeal form and - and you're all looking at me. Why?"

Ella rubs at the tension headache building between her eyes. "We're already at the point of it having a body."

"What? Really? _Shit_ ," he curses. Peter pales as he looks at her, finally taking a breath to really take her in. "Oh man, you don't look so good, boss."

Riley elbows him.

Emet, usually so silent during these gatherings, steps further into the loft with a grave expression. "Indeed, it seems to have progressed much more quickly than anticipated. Although, the stage is far less concerning than the cause."

Anthony straightens, leaning forward on the couch to pin the group of researchers with a demanding verdant gaze. "The cause?"

Peter shifts, uncommonly sober as he meets his alpha's stare, his bright eyes shining electric for just a second. "Imps don't just…turn up out of nowhere."

Lillian grimaces apologetically at Anthony, eyes flicking to Ella briefly. "Imps have to be conjured with a ritual by _someone_ , so none of this is random."

With icy clarity, Ella recalls the imp cackling at her not so long ago. _She's coming_.

It isn't such a startling revelation to find this clarification - it's been more than apparent that Ella has been getting the brunt of the imp's attention and so it isn't exactly surprising to learn that she _is_ being deliberately targeted. It makes more sense that way. She guesses that everyone else had been holding onto some naïve hope that Ella being at the center of it was just because she's a magician, a polar magnet in a town that is itself a magnet for the supernatural.

Ella knows better. She knows what she deserves.

She knows what she's _earned_ over her lifetime and it isn't good.

But -

But it would be so _easy_ , too easy, to just accept this - to just lay back and let herself be consumed or driven insane, whichever comes first. It would be an absolution, an escape, and while she might deserve a little suffering to clean the blood from her hands, she _does not deserve_ the privilege of escaping.

She hasn't run from anything a day in her life. She isn't about to start now.

Ella is a magician. She _is_ magic - and Magic itself has been keeping her alive for a reason.

Some pain in the ass nightmare creature isn't going to take her out.

(Later, once its all over, she realize that it was _this_ moment that started to push the imp out of her head - her decision to _fight_ is what forces the darkness to eek out of her mind in tiny increments, is what gives her magic the leverage it needs to save her life.)

"The imp is the middle man of the actual big bad," Peter is saying when she tunes back to the conversation.

Ella unfurls from the couch, scraping her thoughts together. She doesn't miss the way Anthony shifts to accommodate her or the way his nostrils flare as he takes in the change of her scent, his lifeline humming with a renewed surge of energy to match her own. They both have always done better with a goal, a purpose, a target to aim at. It's what they have an aptitude for, after all.

"Any of that research turn up how the hell we're going to evict this thing from my head?" Ella asks point-blank, her voice scratchy and eyelids heavy.

"Ella, I don't think it will be that easy," Carlisle tries to caution.

Ella's gaze doesn't waver from Peter. Because she knows him and she knows how far his research takes him each time; and likewise, he knows her and he knows how far _she_ will go to do what has to be done. He knows exactly how few qualms she has when it comes to stuff like this.

And Peter, true to form, rises to her expectation. "Imps can't really be eliminated because they're basically magical energy and if you get rid of it, then it basically just…"

"Returns to the caster," Alec concludes with a troubled expression.

"Right," Peter agrees. "Which is nice and all, I guess, but it doesn't really help us in the long run. So, I've been thinking, you know, WWED-"

"What?" asks a baffled Alice.

"Oh!" Bree exclaims. "Oh, What Would _Ella_ Do?"

Peter snaps his fingers. "Yes, exactly," he grins widely before shifting through the papers again to retrieve another crappy photocopy. "And you know, since Ella's such a certified _badass_ , I thought she'd do something that kills two birds with one stone."

Anthony takes the paper that Peter hands to him, which he skims with a thoughtful hum. "This is…"

" _Super_ Ella, right?"

Ella leans over, reading the paper from Anthony side, her brows raising in appreciation. Because it's _brilliant_ , this plan of Peter's that he's cobbled together, and while she's flattered that he thinks _she_ could have come up with something like this, she also feels like it's a patently _Peter_ solution - something that would be just crazy enough to work."

"It could work," she mumbles.

Peter scoffs. " _Please_. If anyone could set a trap to stuff a genie back into a bottle, then it would be you. Uh, metaphorically, though. Because this is an imp, not a genie, and we probably won't be using a bottle."

Ella tilts her head. "But it's not something I can do alone."

Anthony glances at her. "No?"

Her shoulders lift and she shakes her head. "In this condition? I'd be more likely to blow us all up. Something like this would require a concise control of magic and I don't exactly have that right now," she says, a bit grudgingly.

"But I do," Alec says lowly. His expression is carefully blank, which might fool everyone else, but Ella can see how his lifeline is taut with uncomfortable tension. He pushes forward anyway, a trait that must run in the family. "I am the only one qualified within this town to handle the kind of magic you posses, Ella, and I've also had a chance to become familiar with it. I am willing to guide your magic, if necessary."

Ella stares at her uncle, someone only a year older than herself, someone who is already on the run and reluctant to draw attention to himself. And she finds herself moved by his volunteering for this unenviable task. "You don't have to," she says.

He lifts his chin. "I want to."

"Fine."

"Great!" Peter cuts in loudly, his relief nearly palpable. He fumbles for more papers, scratching his cheek idly. "Then let's make a game plan. Uh, okay, according to this, we're going to need an iron nail and _a fuckton_ of salt and-"

"This already sounds like a exorcism," Riley mutters.

Bree guffaws. "Basically. And just in time for Halloween."

Ella closes her eyes, leaning her forehead against the rounded knob of Anthony's shoulder.

It's almost over.

And once they've captured the imp, then Ella will eventually be able to match the magic to the caster - provided, of course, that the caster ever attacks her again. Two birds with one stone indeed.

* * *

 **A/N: Apologies if you are Russian - it's just that the accent is legitimately terrifying, okay? Otherwise, _awesome food_ and excellent music. Also, _foreshadowing_. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	178. part 12: 8: the worst nightmare

**eight**

 **the worst nightmare**

* * *

The plan is deliriously simple, in the end. All Ella _really_ has to do is sleep - and hope that her sleeping buys enough time for Alec to manipulate her magic into trapping the imp in the jar Carlisle and he had painstakingly painted with complex sigils.

They do a single trial run while the shop and the loft are clearing out. It's safer for everyone if fewer people are near because there's less of a chance of the imp transferring to someone else. The others will be beyond the reach of the wards she has helped Alec set, which will physically keep everyone except her and Alec inside. Not even Raven will be able to pass through and Akira, Alec's familiar, is similarly banished to the forest, a glowing white stag keeping sentry.

Anthony is the only one who lingers during the trial run, prowling the perimeter of the living room in silent agitation as Ella closes her eyes and allows her mind to drift into a meditative trance. It's risky because she's so sleep deprived that she could fall asleep before she realizes, but the focus that is required of meditation, to stay just shy of that border to unconsciousness, doesn't allow the imp in her head enough leeway to break through. Distantly, she can feel Alec siphoning a smidge of her magic away, transforming it into a different state of matter - and then she can't feel it anymore and she opens her eyes. Alec is standing tall and confident; behind him, Anthony is still and watchful, ever the predator trapped in human skin.

"It worked," she states matter-of-factly.

Alec nods.

Ella heaves a sigh, body heavy and slow as she stands, using the couch behind her to steady herself. "Then let's get this over with."

Alec hesitates. "Maybe we should try again. After all, these circumstances aren't a perfect replica - you likely will not be able to breathe when I am drawing out the imp-"

"Don't worry about that," Ella says, cutting him off firmly. "Believe me, I can hold my breath long enough to get this thing out of my head."

Alec doesn't look entirely convinced, but he lets it slide. Ella isn't kidding, though; she'd been taught by a kelpie how to hold her breath not six months ago and it isn't something she's been quick to forget. It'll probably be even easier this time, given the fact that she won't be running the risk of _drowning_ if she screws up. And the brain can live three minutes without oxygen, so she doesn't have it in her to be really worried. This is by far the least dangerous stunt she's had to pull in the last year.

Judging by the look on Anthony's face as he enters her space, looming over her in that protective way of his, he's inclined to agree. He cups her face, tilting her head up so that he can kiss her, hard and desperate and achingly chaste. "Don't do anything stupid," he warns as he pulls away, eyes glowing more verdant than gold.

Ella traces her finger over the shiny scar bisecting his left brow and says nothing. It would be cruel to promise him something like that and then fuck up - so she won't do that to him.

He kisses her for another long moment, seeming to know what she isn't saying and accepting it in his own way. Then he leaves, closing the loft door behind him.

It sounds oddly final.

But that's just her mind playing tricks on her.

She and Alec wait until the wards around the building close up after Anthony's departure before they move into place. Ella lays back on the couch, head pillowed on the arm rest with her arms at her side; in her hands, she has two long iron nails tight in her grip. Alec moves around the couch with a container of salt, which he distributes in a generous circle as he closes himself inside the new barrier. Then he balances the rotund clay jar, now decorated with sigils made with squid ink and ground sage, on top of her stomach, careful to open the lid without removing it entirely.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks quietly, uneasily.

She's less surprised by the protective concern he displays than she ordinarily would be; Alec is _family_ , and differences aside, he's the exact type of person to form quick attachments. And she's asking him for a lot at the moment knowing full well he's _never_ had to step up like this. She levels him with an unflappable stare. "Do what needs to be done," she tells him. "No matter what. Do you understand?"

"What if it goes wrong or-"

"No." Her tone is cutting, demanding and stern. "No. Even if it looks like it's going south, even if I'm dying, _you do not stop_. Because this imp may have been sent to target me, but it's been fucking with the town and going after defenseless _kids_ , too. Do you get it? My life isn't more important than _that_."

It really isn't. She's always known that one life isn't worth the lives of many and it strikes her as bitterly unfair that there is collateral damage when this creature is only after her; it _burns_ that she is weak and powerless to do anything about it; she seethes internally at being forced to rely on another's magic to do what needs to be done. But there isn't any way around it. And Peter's research had been thorough.

They fail and the imp kills Ella and, best case scenario, it returns to its caster.

Worst case scenario? It feeds off of the people living in Charmstone, picking them off one by one because an imp is nothing more than a particularly shitty parasite.

She _cannot_ let that happen.

"Do you understand?" she asks again, unforgiving and direct.

Alec swallows. "I understand," he manages stiffly.

With the ideals he'd been raised by, Alec certainly does understand. Accepting it is a completely different thing. But she isn't asking him to kill the imp.

No, that's something _she_ wants to do - later, when the time is right.

It might even be cathartic, or something.

They'd debated - she, Alec, and Carlisle - about the merits of inducing sleep with some kind of herb or spell. Ultimately, considering all the stimulants already in her system keeping her awake, they'd decided against that. Plus, with the imp being what it is, they couldn't run the risk of Ella being completely helpless in her sleep; bad enough already having to confront the nightmare, she didn't also need to be bogged down with things that would make her slow to react.

"Ready?" Alec asks, his hands held parallel to the floor, ready to cast at a moment's notice.

Ella sends him a brief droll look before closing her eyes.

Knowing what she's going to be walking into, it takes longer for sleep to come - but before she knows it, she's caught in a slumbering undertow, dragged into unconsciousness by her ankles and held there -

The imp is waiting, a pressure creeping along her chest, growing heavier by the second; a shrill laugh piercing her ears; coldness down her spine; tightness in her throat -

Panic - she can't breathe -

" _She's coming_ ," laughs the imp. _"She's coming, she's coming."_

And in the back of her mind, she can hear Alice's voice: _she went to bed with an imp in her head, she went to be with an imp in her head, shewenttobedwithanimpinherhead, and she'll never see another day…_

 _"She's coming for you,_ " the imp sing-songs. And its fingers tighten around her neck and she can feel herself gagging, gasping, choking for air that will never come. And the imp just laughs and laughs and grows stronger, its touch more tangible, it's presence more _real_ -

Something changes.

The imp stops laughing.

The imp starts screeching.

And Ella can feel something leaving her, a darkness, a shadow, a blight on her mind, and she knows that Alec has pulled through - even as she can't _breathe_ , even as the imp begins to fight, drawing up all of Ella's worst memories and clawing at her neck with sharp nails - yes, even then, she knows Alec is doing what has been asked of him.

The imp fights every step of the way - but grounded as she is by the iron nails in her hands and with the combined magical force of herself and Alec, their magics joining together against the creature, the imp does not fight for long. It is ripped from her mind and from around her throat and just like that - so easily - she can breathe again.

Ella opens her eyes, ignoring the tears streaming down her face as she inhales ragged, deep breaths. Air as never felt so _good_. She's still tired, almost boneless with exhaustion, but a _weight_ has been taken from her - a weight that had crept inside her mind when she wasn't looking, twisting her thoughts and sending her circling into despair.

It's gone now.

"You're bleeding," Alec says at her side. He's kneeling by the couch, salt scattered around his knees, and the clay jar is firmly shut on the coffee table, the sigils now glowing the same violent violet-red as the imp's eyes.

Ella's chest is still heaving as she draws her eyes away, trying to figure out what Alec means. Her palms are knicked from the iron nails, but Alec's eyes are on her throat. Her fingers flutter around her neck, brushing against warm stickiness; later when she looks in the mirror, she will see blackish bruises in the shape of bony fingers and the streaking gouges left by the imp as it tried to fight back, using her own blood to become corporeal the longer it struggled against Alec.

(She'll be glad that witnessing that is something that she won't have to live with.)

"I'm fine," she says hoarsely, dropping her head back weakly. "But I could probably sleep for a week."

Alec's laugh is just this side of hysterical.

* * *

 **A/N: Okay, so now that this is the last chapter of this arc, I can freely admit that I was _a little_ creeped out by the imp. Of all the monsters so far, I think this has been the worst, simply because of the similarities between the imp and just the way mental illness manifests - your brain basically betraying you, you know? It got a little close to home for me and I wasn't expecting that. **

**Anyway, now come the interludes! We're getting very close to approaching the wrap up of the main plots, so the next arc is going to shift gears _a little_. Who the hell knows how long it'll be - I certainly don't. But at least two interludes for this arc to look forward to. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	179. part 12: interlude

**interlude**

* * *

It's been a while, maybe a few months, since he was last sitting in his mother's office and in all honesty, he doesn't want to be there at the moment.

He has been having…trouble leaving Ella after this latest ordeal - by far the imp had made him feel more helpless than ever before. An unseen opponent sent by an unseen enemy and absolutely nothing that he could do about it. To have to rely on someone else to save his mate - unofficial as it might be, her neck unmarked by his teeth - was _difficult_ , to say the least, and it has left him uncommonly anxious to be away from her. What if something happens when he is not there? It's hard enough to try to sleep near her; as peaceful and uninterrupted as her slumber might be a week after the fact, he is disinclined to trust in it. Each time she shifts against him in the bed, he wakes with a stir of anxiety.

And when she cradles his face between her small palms, smoothing the worry in his brow, he can only marvel at her resilience. It isn't that she's untouched by everything that happens - very much the opposite, in fact - but she somehow finds the strength to _keep going_.

She makes him keep going, too.

 _("I know you're worried," she says against his lips. "But, Tony, you have to take care of yourself, too. Go to class. Skip a patrol. Sleep until the afternoon the way we both know you want to. I'll be fine. I_ am _fine."_

 _"I can't just…"_

 _"You can."_

 _"I have duties, a responsibility. I'm an alpha and-"_

 _Her hand presses over his heart, which thumps loudly against her palm. She never ceases to make him feel like every touch is the first one. "Before you're anything, you are_ Tony _," she corrects him with a challenging hike of her brow. "Let me share the weight."_

 _"You take on enough," he argues and his hands are closing around her hips, remembering just how_ much _she takes on. He'll probably never understand the exact weight of the burden she has volunteered herself for, but he does know that his Ella is_ something else _to be able to persist and keep moving forward._

 _He wonders, in a brief flash of morbid chest-burning pain, if even Death itself would be able to keep her down. It hasn't before. But when is the end of her tether? How much time can she continue to borrow?_

 _He prays to never find out._

 _Ella shrugs and adopts a breezy tone. "I can take on a little more."_

 _"Sweetheart…"_

 _"It's a fair trade if I get to keep you," she tells him seriously._

 _He finds himself unable to argue with her anymore. They all cope differently.)_

Anthony snaps back to the present as his mother calls his name and he raises his gaze, noticing for the first time that her eyes are not as green as they once were. In fact, even for a werewolf, Elisabeth Masen is beginning to show signs of age; not only in the scattered silver strands in her dark hair, but also in the fine lines around her mouth. And her eyes are speckled with the same cognac as the twins, just around the center of the pupil.

He knows what that means. The spark of alpha werewolf magic in her is beginning to disperse, slowly but surely. Becoming his, he knows, given that _his_ eyes are almost completely green, flecked with only the tiniest flakes of amber.

"It won't be long now," his mother says, voicing both of their thoughts.

"How long?" he wonders, a bit hollowed at the realization. How hadn't he noticed until _just now_?

(He knows how he hadn't noticed - there's always so much going on.)

"A few years, maybe, and then all of the alpha magic will have found its next sire in you."

Anthony sits back, exhaling heavily. "This why you called me here?"

"No," she says gently. She studies him for a moment. "It's almost been a year since you've taken the mantle of alpha and still your pack consists of only two betas. You know you need a third before the year is finished if you want to keep this power, otherwise it will have to pass onto someone else in the Masen Pack."

"I know," he says with a frown.

"Do you still plan to take my place, Anthony?"

He doesn't answer. He isn't sure _what_ he wants. Anthony never really _wanted_ to be alpha; he'd dragged his feet through the trials until Ella popped up in the past and unwittingly kicked his ass into gear; then he'd transferred all his grief and impatience at her return to the future into passing all of the trials while he waited for her to turn up again. But even then, it was just something to do, something to occupy himself, something he felt obligated and duty-bound to complete. And now with her back and _with him_ , all of that drive has been centralized on the sudden uptick of activity in Charmstone. Keeping the town safe, keeping _Ella_ safe, hasn't left much time for him to think of anything else, really.

But he should be thinking about it. Taking his mother's place would be a lifetime commitment, at least until another wolf showed signs of being ready and he could pass the mantle onward. The real question, he supposes, if he _should_ become Alpha of the Masen Pack.

He doesn't know the answer to that question, either.

"You know why I was chosen to become the next Masen Alpha," his mother says, a thoughtful expression on her face. " _My_ father chose me over all my siblings because he could sense that I would be suited to the peaceful climate. For a similar reason, I chose you as my successor because I can sense the change coming - I can feel it in the air, the way this time of peace is coming to a close."

Anthony is vividly reminded of one of the last conversations he'd had with Uncle Marcus, the way Marcus talked about being able to scent the change in the air. "Aptitude," he murmurs.

His mother smiles sadly. "Yes, you've always had the aptitude for it - for being the enforcer and for being the next alpha, really. Marcus did have a way of being right about those sort of things," she remembers fondly. She sighs then, a terse set to her mouth. "But just because you have the aptitude for it, doesn't mean you have to take it, Anthony. There's still time to begin the trials for someone else. Your ascension isn't set in stone, yet."

 _Aptitude_. He hasn't thought about that conversation or Uncle Marcus in far too long - it's always painful, recalling the screams and the fire and the cloying manchineel ash, and it's bad enough that he has the occasional nightmare about it that he usually does his best to avoid remembering while he's awake.

But he should have been. He _should_ have been living up to what Uncle Marcus thought of him instead of willfully ignoring it. Because how could he forget that he _does_ have an aptitude for this, that he can do what is necessary and what is right?

He let himself get a little lost.

"I want it," he says out loud, his voice implacable and his decision firm. At the slightly skeptical look that crosses his mother's face, Anthony firms his jaw and says, "I _will_ be the next Alpha of the Masen Pack."

"Well," she replies at length. "Good. Then you know what you need to do."

 _Find a third beta to cement my authority and stabilize my personal pack._

Anthony leaves the Masen territory with his head full of swirling thoughts - memories and apprehensions alike causing him to take the long route back to _The Magic Shop_ just to clear his head. Knowing what he has to do to get what he wants is much easier said than done.

When he says this to Ella, she crosses her arms over her chest and snorts indelicately. "Only if you overthink it."

"Not all of us are as reckless as you, sweetheart," he tells her with a wry twist of his lips.

She rolls her eyes at him and then crosses the room, circling her arms around his neck and playing with the hair at the base of his skull. He sinks into her gravity, as he is certain that he must, and presses his nose to the top of her head, inhaling that electric citrus scent of hers that never fails to soothe the beast inside.

"This is something that you need," she says, digging the point of her chin into his collarbone to catch his gaze. This moment is by far the lightest he has ever seen her - remarkable for how much he knows the imp is still weighing on her mind. He doesn't know how she does it, how she can be so sharp for everyone else but so soft for him. Ella tugs on his hair ."Tell me how I can help."

His hands drop from the dip of her spine, palms smoothing over the low curve of her hips - and then decisively _lower_. "I can think of a few things."

The rest can wait - for a moment or two.

* * *

 **A/N: One more interlude for this arc coming up. This interlude is obviously setting up for finishing out Anthony's personal sub-plot, which is connected to another character's sub-plot and which then ties up a loose end I left...somewhere in part 5, probably. Who the hell knows anymore?  
**

 **If anyone is bothering to keep the timeline of the story up, we're almost to Halloween! Which means that in-story time, not including the time travel, these characters have been dealing with quiznak for 1 1/2 years, starting from when Ella and Carlisle first moved to Charmstone and Anthony began howling at the moon. Cool, huh?**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	180. part 12: interlude interlude

**interlude**

* * *

She has a bad habit - or a good habit, maybe - of associating people with music. Or, like, thinking of people the same way she thinks of music? It's hard to describe. Usually she's got a beat constantly going in her head, a riff or a melody that helps her distract herself from the totally overwhelming sensory overload that is being a werewolf. Even as a born wolf, getting a grip on the sheer amount of sounds and scents constantly vying for recognition is a _bitch_.

Probably it would help if her attention span was, like, _longer_. But the point is that music? It's the only reason Bree has any semblance of control over the she-wolf prowling around her head. And that's why people remind her of music.

Riley is a dramatic score that would make Andrew Lloyd Webber weep in envy; Anthony is the low-key introspective angst of Hozier; Peter, her oldest friend, is the snappy, quirky tune of Elton John. Bree even associates herself with music, her personal soundtrack being the head-banging rush of the early days of Blondie and The Ramones and the garage punk bands that were all _sound_ and paved the way for a time in music where emotion was conveyed through the battling noise of multiple instruments.

Very rarely is there a time when Bree can't automatically associate someone with, at the very least, a song.

Her first impression of Ella is the tumult of progressive rock and it _fits_ because Ella is a paint-stained, leather-clad, lined-eyed subversion of a girl and way, way _cooler_ than she should be. But then things change and suddenly Ella is the heavy darkness of thrashing heavy metal and the grunge of Nirvana. And then she is the triumphant sky-high wail of all the best and all the most legendary rock anthems. And then she is different _again_ , another change that makes Bree think of something else entirely, the over-arching persistence of _Hallelujah._

A year later and Bree thinks she finally has a grip on who Ella is - a singer-songwriter reaching for instinct instead of genre, portraying intent of emotion instead of action, making profound statements without saying anything complicated at all. Ella is PJ Harvey. A feminist, a rebel, a wildcard.

And like, _really_ , it's a good thing Anthony jumped on Ella's crazy train because not even Bree could keep up with _all of that_. Bree's super relieved her embarrassingly obvious crush on Ella has faded into a friendly regard, because even for as painfully pretty as Ella is, Bree is _in no way_ capable of keeping up. If her big brother can? Well, more power to him and all hail the alpha wolf.

Bree dodged a bullet there.

But that doesn't mean that Ella isn't one of her closest friends or that Bree wouldn't cut for Ella in a _second_ if she had to. Ella has more than earned Bree's unwavering loyalty and if Bree is being totally straight - ha - then she'll happily confess that she likes all the danger and excitement that Ella totes around with her. There's always something going on and for the first time, Bree feels like she _is_ punk music, not just listening to it.

She's, like, a badass by association. It's all kinds of awesome.

Frequently horrifying, of course, but still awesome.

All that said, the _point_ is that Ella's unpredictable qualities have become super endearing to Bree and probably everyone else in their group, which she is _not_ calling The Goodfellows, thanks. Ella is totally a grumpy cinnamon roll or, as Peter likes to say, a completely lovable cactus.

Which is why Bree doesn't feel _too bad_ about laughing her ass off as she watches Peter do his best to convince Ella of this scheme he's cooked up. He's doing some really respectable wheedling, trotting behind Ella as she sees to the inventory stocking in the shop. Bree has no idea what most of the knick-knacks do, but she still thinks they're pretty cool; she's got one of those glass-light things hanging on a chain around her neck because its _that_ freaking useful.

"Okay, _come on_ , El," Peter whines, hitting that sub-vocal pitch only wolves can. "Hear me out at least!"

Ella is unmoved. "I have heard you," she tells him with a flat stare.

"You have?" Peter wonders doubtfully.

"Obviously," she drawls. "I'm not deaf and _you_ are loud."

"So mean," he admonishes. He reaches forward to snag the stumpy wooden box holding the new stock out of Ella's arms and dances backward with the box over his head when she tries to take it back. "Nuh-uh! Not until you agree!"

"I'm not going to agree," Ella counters.

"Then you won't be getting your box back!"

Ella snorts, rolls her eyes, and snaps her fingers twice - and then, in the blink of an eye, the box disappears from Peter's hands and reappears on the counter near Bree's elbow.

"Oh, man. That was my only leverage," Peter pouts.

"Exactly."

A beat passes and Bree catches her breath, her ribs aching from laughing so hard.

And then Peter is off again.

"You own a business - a popular one - in town, Ella! And you're a community leader!" Peter exclaims, ticking the points off on his fingers. " _And_ you would definitely have the most popular booth at the Halloween Carnival!"

Ella crosses her arms over her chest, one hip jutting out as she stares coolly at Peter. "Is there such a thing as a popular _puppet_ booth?"

Peter gesticulates broadly. "Have you watched a movie? Dude! _The Sound of Music_ and _Shrek_ both had some killer puppet booths."

Bree chokes on more laughter. She never thought she'd see the day where Peter tried to prove a point by using musicals and this either proves that the world is ending _or_ he's been spending too much time with Riley. And considering the slow scent-merging that Peter and Riley have going on, she'd bet it was the latter, which might possibly lead to the former.

"I'm not signing _The Magic_ _Shop_ up for a puppet booth that would have to be ready in less than a week," Ella says firmly.

Peter shifts on his feet, suddenly looking - and smelling - more than a little guilty.

Ella scowls. "You _didn't_."

Peter laughs nervously, scratching at the back of his neck. "Well…"

"Peter!"

"I thought it was a good idea!"

" _Why_?" Ella demands, appearing genuinely baffled.

It isn't exactly a rare response to Peter's…Peterness, though it _is_ the kind of blue moon reaction that Ella doesn't usually reserve for him. Ella probably has the highest tolerance for Peter than anyone Bree has ever met - Riley included. It's kind of impressive, really.

"Publicity!" Peter exclaims. "And for fun! And think of the kids!"

"Oh, my God," Ella groans, closing her eyes briefly and shaking her head. "Can you undo it?"

"Uh…"

" _Fantastic_."

"It's not that big of a deal!" Peter tries.

Ella raises an incredulous brow. "It isn't?"

"No!"

"So I suppose you have puppets and a booth and a story for the puppets to play and everything else all ready to go?" Ella asks pointedly.

Peter opens his mouth and then shuts it with a click.

Bree bites her lips, wiping tears from her eyes as she tries to hold in the giggles threatening to escape. Oh, this is _all_ just _too good_. She wishes she had though to film it from the start. This is the kind of crap that makes excellent memes. That expression on Ella's face - what does Peter call it?

Oh, right. Ella Unenchanted. Hilarious.

"Okay, so, like, I _might_ not have thought about all the details," Peter says haltingly. "But it's still feasible!"

"Oh yeah? How?"

Peter tugs on his ear. "Uh, well…Riley can write the play and Bree can supply the music and you can just magic up everything else, right? And I'll handle the kids myself! See, it works perfectly!"

"Don't volunteer me to fix your mess, Pete," Bree says loudly.

Peter turns his best approximation of puppy eyes on her. Damn him for being so good at that expression.

Bree wrinkles his nose. "Oh, _fine_."

Peter brightens and turns back to Ella expectantly. "See? It'll all work out!" he says cheerily.

Ella pokes him in the center of the chest. " _Fine_. But don't pull this shit again, Peter. I mean it."

Peter winces. "Uh…well, is this a bad time to tell you that I _might_ have signed the shop up for all the events for the rest of the year?"

Bree bursts out laughing at the expression on Ella's face - and then she's quick to make herself scarce, lest she get roped into another round of the verbal sparring Ella and Peter are engaging in again. She's still mirthful as she escapes down the street, her keen ears catching the phrase _"you absolute failwolf"_ before she's completely out of earshot.

Peter is braver than anybody gives him credit for. Or just really, really dumb for someone so smart. Or both.

Probably both.

Bree is so preoccupied by her thoughts that she _almost_ doesn't realize that her escape route has taken her around to the flat, grassy field beside Charmstone High School until the soccer ball comes whizzing toward her face. She manages to catch it before it hits her by the virtue of werewolf reflexes, but it still slaps and stings against her palm and she has trouble masking the surprise on her face.

Bree, a lifelong werewolf, was almost nailed in the face by a _soccer ball_.

"Oh, geez!" calls a voice, a pleasantly warm female rasp that has Bree blinking against the sun to get a better look at the face attached. "So sorry! I really, really wasn't aiming for you - I swear - but I guess I'm not as good at judging the trajectory as I thought and - Hey, are you okay?"

Bree blinks, still holding the ball in her hands.

Wow.

She isn't sure what really gets her first - the face or the scent. The girl jogging toward her is all golden skin and ruddily flushed cheeks, round grey-blue eyes, wispy golden curls escaping a hastily-made bun, and long, slender legs clad in tall navy socks and mud-splattered cleats. And _the scent_ , a pleasantly sharp tang of fresh raspberries beneath the musk of honeysuckle that makes the wolf inside Bree sit up and _take notice_.

Oddly, Bree feels like she's at risk of swallowing her own tongue when the girl comes closer.

The girl squints at Bree in concern. "Did it hit you?"

"What?" Bree asks dumbly.

"The ball."

Oh, right. Bree shakes her head. Her face feels _hot_ as she passes the ball back to the girl. "No. Nope. Completely unhit - uh, unharmed, that is."

"That's good," the girl says with a warm, bright smile. "Sorry about that. Again. I usually don't run the risk of maiming pedestrians, I promise."

"I hope not," Bree quips, regaining some of her equilibrium from wherever the hell it disappeared to. She ignores the alertness of her wolf and feels her lips spread into a wide smile. "Because I'm pretty sure that's not how the game is supposed to be played."

The girl laughs, throwing her head back. "You're right about that." The girl keeps smiling, tucking the ball beneath her arm and looking at Bree with curiosity. "Hey, I know you, don't I?"

Bree shrugs, jerking her chin to the school beyond the field. "Probably. I graduated like a year ago."

The girl bites her lip. "No, that's not it…. _Oh!_ " she exclaims, abruptly brightening. "I know! You were the girl that Principle Green had to escort out of school last week!"

Bree blanches, because she _pointedly_ did not mention the results of her investigation at the high school to anyone in her group _for reasons_. "Let's just keep that between us, yeah?" Bree requests quickly.

"My lips are sealed," she promises. Then she holds out her hand, looking to all the world like she's fully intending on shaking Bree's hand, as if that's a _thing_ that people actually _do_. "I'm McKayla."

She hesitates for a fraction of a second before her palm meets McKayla's, their hands fitting perfectly together even though McKayla is maybe about an inch taller than her. "Bree Masen."

Something like _knowing_ flits through McKayla's eyes, but her smile doesn't dim and - if anything - a new tint of sweetness enters her scent.

Bree's heart starts to pound.

And for the first time in a _long_ time, she finds herself unable to match someone to the music always swirling through her head.

She thinks it's a good thing.

* * *

 **A/N: This wasn't supposed to be that long. If anyone is wondering, McKayla is a character from the genderbent Twilight because I am taking liberties with Bree's sexual orientation, because I can! What are the odds of fraternal twins being gay, I wonder?**

 **Next up is part 13!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	181. part 13: 1: the puppet show

**PART THIRTEEN**

* * *

 **one**

 **the puppet show**

* * *

She must be getting soft in her old age or something, because the street-hardened orphan she was two years ago would have _never_ let herself be talked into something as inane as this. That or her damnable fondness for Peter has made her susceptible to his particular methods of persuasion, which are shockingly effective. Peter had appealed to Ella's sense of pragmatism.

What better way to engender continued support from the town than to endear herself - and her shop - to them by participating in the town-wide holiday festivals? Peter had waved Ella's protests about _not gaining anything for all the time it would cost_ by pointing out that, at the very least, she _would_ be gaining more prospective customers.

And in the end, she figured that as long as _she_ wasn't having to write the damn play or actually _deal_ with the people coming to _The Magic Shop's_ booth - well, then what was the harm? Peter _had_ been quick to assure her that the only thing she'd really be needed for was special effects and that could be easily achieved with a few cleverly placed runes.

Ella had been all for that plan. Really.

But then she caught Peter and Jane following Riley's script directives by using _sock puppets_ and the artist in her felt a vague sense of horror.

Sock puppets? The booth for _her_ store using _sock puppets_?

"No," she says with a moue of disgust, hands on her hips as she stares at the three of them gathered in the loft living room. She's just come up from the workshop in search of something to drink, but stumbling across this _travesty_ had vanished all thirst. She pierces Peter with a glare. "I take it back. _No way in hell_."

The sock puppet, a pilling wool with mismatched button eyes, drops onto his lap. "Wait, Ella -"

"Forget about it," she says shortly. "You aren't using sock puppets - just, _no_."

Riley shifts to face her, favoring Ella with a look dripping with disdain that is usually reserved for Bree. "Do you have a better suggestion?"

No. No she does not. And she doesn't have the time, either - at least, not until she finally _masters_ that time spell, which she thinks she _almost_ has, maybe. Even then, she has the store and Tony and the town and whatever the hell the imp was talking about - _she's coming_ \- to deal with and she absolutely cannot put any of that on a back burner for a goddamn puppet booth.

Ella's teeth click together, a groan hooked from her throat as her shoulders slump. "Oh, for _fuck's_ sake," she huffs, striding over to the group and vanishing those pathetic sock monstrosities with a flicker of a thought and a tiny surge of magic. She snatches Peter's copy of the play and flips through it with a scowl, skimming the three pages of settings and lines and thematic sequences. "If we're going to do this, we're going to do it right."

She studiously ignores the victorious look Riley and Peter share, realizing very belatedly from the guilty expression on Jane's face that Ella has been _played_. Conned, even.

She flicks Peter in the middle of his forehead and feels that it was well earned.

Magic is incredibly useful.

It isn't very often that Ella is reminded of how _amazing_ magic can be. So often, she's using it as a tool, as a defense; magic returns her to life just as much as it makes her a living weapon and for that reason, she's lost the marvel that she once felt for magic as an entity. Seldom is there anything truly joyful in casting magic, not when she has to use it so frequently for violence or for income. She likes playing with it, of course; she has a healthy and warm regard for the sense of accomplishment she feels when she creates a new product for the store in the workshop. But so much of magic is for _necessity_ that she's completely forgotten how enthralled she'd been when she first learned.

When was the last time she used magic for anything even remotely fun? Probably when she enchanted those cookies last year. A whole _year_ ago.

That has to change. No wonder she feels so _heavy_ all the time. What does she ever do that doesn't involve yet another life-or-death situation? God.

But this thing that Peter has unceremoniously thrust into her life - this is _good_. Ella feels _lighter_ as she uses magic and wood to craft marionette puppets that don't need strings, shaping and smoothing the wood into round-headed characters. For once, she's not thinking about the latest crisis or the ones on the horizon. Instead, her entire focus for a couple of days is all about carving tiny runes onto the puppets and hand-painting their faces and bodies and experimenting with chaining simple runes together to create pre-determined movements that she won't have to constantly power. And then she ropes Alec into her project, making him help her and Peter set up a squat wooden booth in the town square, the back of which has several long lines of chained runes that coordinate sounds and lights and the movements and voices of the puppets. She and Jane drape the booth in bolts of fabric loaned from a couple of hedge witches who own a craft store a few blocks over. Riley makes Ella - and then Alec - charge the chained runes to "rehearse" the puppet play several times, tweaking this or that until he is satisfied.

And it's _good_ \- as impressive as accomplishing _all_ of that in the span of four days, which is cutting the deadline for the Halloween Festival very close, it's even _better_ that Ella's mind is cleared during that entire time. She falls soundly asleep curled next to Anthony each night and wakes so very well rested - so much so, in fact, that she feels silly for the niggling fear of sleeping that had been creeping up on her before Peter's gumption swept her away.

Ella feels normal.

She likes having this kind of project - something that is creative and relatively unimportant and makes her use magic the way she would use a paintbrush.

Ella likes _creating_.

She's so tired of destroying.

And she knows that the acute stress - the irritability and the nightmares and the paranoia - will come back, because there's just _so much shit_ on top of her already unstable personality. She knows that. She isn't _cured_ , not by a long shot. But for a little while, at least, she isn't trudging through the shadows that her life has largely become.

And she feels a bit more like herself. Maybe even a _better version_ of herself.

Like the Ella she has the potential to be one day.

 _Good_ barely even touches on how incredible that self-discovery feels.

All because of fucking _puppets_.

Figures.

Halloween falls on a Wednesday this year and similar to the festival last year, the town square is itself a hay-bale maze garnished in orange and black with rows of booths on three sides for food, games, and attractions. And just like every year, the high schoolers are costumed to haunt while parents lead trick-or-treaters around to the businesses on the square to collect candy. Music pipes in from the PA system at the high school, a jaunty tune interspersed with more ghoulish organ music than seems strictly necessary if Bree's disgruntled expression is to be believed. And for better or for worse, _The Magic Shop_ 's puppet show is nestled right between apple-bobbing and orange funnel cakes dusted in powdered sugar.

The puppet show is basically spelled to run on a loop so long as Ella or Alec are nearby to charge the first sequence of runes. According to Alec, her use of chaining the runes together like a computer code is "novel" and "innovative" and he'd been suitably impressed. Ella's just mostly glad that she doesn't have to sit through the unique experience of Peter's puppet performance. With the booth essentially automated, it's almost zero fuss.

Almost.

The twitchiness of her group of friends standing behind the little circle making their audience is a bit of a fuss, mostly because they're all so _damn anxious_ about the booth. Ella doesn't get it, really. The puppets are doing exactly what they're supposed to and the special effects supplied by magic are slipping into the show at the exact right time. But still Peter is biting his nails and Riley has a hawkish focus on the booth and Jane is wringing her hands together in a blatant display of nerves. Even Alec seems a bit on edge, mumbling the runic sequences to himself in time with the puppet show.

Ella rolls her eyes and leans backward into Anthony's chest, smiling privately when his arms tighten around her waist. She feels him shift, his mouth brushing against the top of her ear and she tilts her head to the side just a bit to give him better access.

"What's this puppet show about?" he mutters, not even bothering to mask his befuddlement.

She bites the inside of her cheek, nodding her chin to the current "scene". "Basically, there's this old house that gives out ten pound candy bars but the house is kind of spooky because only an old lady and a cat live there, which people only know because sometimes they see green eyes in the window," she explains in a low tone, watching as magic lightning and thunder and wind howl on the puppet stage while two child-sized puppets amble up to the house on the stage. "There's a twist, though, because the cat-"

"Shh!" Peter's hands flap in her direction. "Don't ruin it!"

"Yeah, because the cat _really_ being a panther who follows the children and retrieves the candy so that the old lady can give another ten pound chocolate bar to another set of kids is _super_ shocking," Ella deadpans.

Peter stares at her with wounded eyes. "You are so _cold_."

Anthony's chest shakes with muffled laughter and Ella snorts at Peter's dramatics. Despite her spoiler, the children in the audience still squeal when the massive black cat puppet leaps toward the child-sized puppets to steal back the candy and with one clean run under their belt, everyone else begins to relax. Ella is just resetting the sequence when a familiar lifeline snags her attention -

Because Bree's brazen turquoise is connected by the tiniest thread to a baby pink lifeline.

Ella peers through the crowd, brows hiking upward when she spots Bree holding hands with a lithe golden-blonde as they drag each other between booths. She must make some kind of understanding noise because Anthony seems to follow her gaze and he makes the same muted _huh_.

She cranes her neck back and raises a quizzical brow; he silently shrugs, then kisses the arc of her cheekbone. And Ella, for the first time in her life, closes her eyes in a crowd full of people - knowing without a doubt that it is a luxury she can afford.

They are safe. They are - dare she say it - happy.

Everything is _good_.

(Good things never last for too long.)

* * *

 **A/N: Puppets! Character development! Banter _and_ bonding! For anyone curious about it, the puppet play _is_ a legitimate Halloween campfire story told to children and I definitely could have spent ages writing it scene for scene but the puppet show wasn't _really_ the point. (And I might do an outtake for it anyway, so.)**

 **Welcome to part 13! Worth noting is the fact that this arc is going to link us right up with the main plot _but_ this is not the last arc at all. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	182. part 13: 2: three things

**two**

 **three things**

* * *

November rolls into December with placidity, the thick woods of Charmstone forest permeating with seasonal chill, autumnal leaves dropping one-by-one to reveal the craggy fingers of tree branches. The air is calm and all is quiet. Some days, she goes outside and watches her foggy breath spiral into the air, reminding her of the days where sucking down a cigarette on a fire escape was the best excuse she could come up with to stay removed from a crowded foster home. She likes this better and not only because the smoky taste of nicotine always felt like burnt tar on her tongue.

But Ella is weary in the face of all this calm. She doesn't _trust_ in it - she can't, not when she knows that there are still hunters crawling around somewhere and that The Order is surely still looking for Alec, even three months after successfully remaining hidden, and then there is the imp's parting message. Things are still up in the air. It's like the whole of Charmstone is waiting as the seasons turn over; the quiet in the air is the calm before the storm and the animals in the forest seem to escape for hibernation more quickly than normal.

What had she heard before? That animals always know, that animals can sense natural disasters ages before one strikes.

Ella thinks she's kind of like an animal in that way. The way she is keyed into the leylines of the town, the way she can see the crisscross of lifelines, the way her magic is always simmering just beneath the surface - it's all some kind of animal instinct, in a way. And she doesn't think that she's the only one that senses it, either.

Anthony, for all that he is solemn and quiet, is not frequently so _watchful_. There is something almost predatory burning in him as his eyes continue to bleed more green, the amber being leeched away in the wake of his alpha wolf prowess. He tells her that he can smell the change in the air; he says that his mother has said the same; and that before her, the late Marcus Masen had felt the change, too. And Ella tries to wrap her head around _that_ , tries to understand how _three years_ have been building toward whatever is coming, tries to push away the guilt that says _she is the change_.

But _she_ can't be the change on the wind if the change is still coming. She's not even the catalyst. Ella simply _is_.

Which is why she works very hard to, if not escape this sense of impending doom, then at least move beyond it. She goes to therapy and talks about the slow-fading nightmares and the quick-flash temper that never quite fades because Ella is as much her temper as she is her magic. She works with Riley to make another puppet booth for the Thanksgiving Festival and spends a lot of time smirking over their blatant plagiarism of Charlie Brown and The Peanuts. She tries and fails to make a pie for Thanksgiving, drags Anthony to Sam's Diner where Emily is already waiting with a pecan pie, and then stews in the sheer awkward of the family dinner with significant others; she hides her surprise at the way Alice and Jasper are _together_ and feels _proud_ of the way Alice point-blank tells Esme that the banshee approach to matriarchy is something that she will most definitely be rejecting. She makes it a point to show up in Carlisle's office at the high school a few times a week with lunch from the diner and snark at him about his crisis students who are all mesmerized by his accent.

And at night, when she is tired and pliant and as near to happy as she's probably ever been, she falls into Tony's arms and basks in the electric connection of their physical desires. If she weren't so good at silencing wards, she's certain both Jane and Anthony's dorm mates would be complaining about how much noise they get up to when his head is between her thighs or her mouth is stretched around his cock. And sometimes, when she is on the cusp of sleep and sated, she feels his lips linger at the join of her neck and shoulder - and she knows exactly what he's thinking, even if he hasn't brought it up yet, and she also knows that's why they haven't had penetrative sex, yet. It's an unspoken understanding.

One of many, really. Between the two of them, they haven't always needed _words_.

The same cannot always be said for others, however, which is why her attention is firmly snagged when Alec pulls her aside one evening in early December. While the rest of The Goodfellows are occupied with arguing over which Christmas movie they should watch - Peter is _winning_ with his suggestion of _Elf_ \- Alec draws Ella into the kitchen and, in low tones, says that the ambient magic in Charmstone is beginning to _change_.

"You have my attention," she tells him and listens with a furrowed brow as he describes the way the air is brushing against his skin like static cling.

"It's as if the magic all around is preparing for something," he says in obvious concern.

And Ella closes her eyes, feeling for the leylines she is connected to, disturbed to find that nothing has changed in the natural magical currents. She tells Alec as much and he frowns.

How is it that they both feel two different things? Aside from her own instincts, Ella hasn't felt even an inkling of change in the magical cornerstones of Charmstone the way that Alec has, and it doesn't sit well with her.

Ella isn't sure if it's because Alec is a light magician and she's a neutral; it could be that Alec is more in tune with magic in general simply because he's been mediating his entire life; it could be that Ella is blinded by the natural currents and can't sense the more subtle changes. All options are possible. They already know that, while they're both magicians, they don't have the exact same abilities, even outside of moral codes. Like, Ella can see and manipulate lifelines, but Alec can only see auras; elemental earth-based magic comes more easily to him, while her elements skew toward the more devastating; all living things seem attracted to Alec like moths to a flame, while at the same time those living things don't respond to Ella in any significant way. They are _different_ and they'll probably never know why - not really.

But as it is, that is not the first time Alec notices something that is too mild to be picked up on Ella's radar.

The second time it happens is when William Black pays a visit to _The Magic Shop_.

Ella is alone minding the store while Jane picks up their lunch down the street. It isn't a busy day, really. The store certainly has popular days - the weekends, Fridays, and for some incomprehensible reason, Tuesdays - but Monday certainly isn't one of them, so Ella has taken the slowness as permission to trawl through The Goodfellows app on her phone. True to their word, Jasper and Peter have been working hard to transfer relevant information onto different sections of the app, which means that the non-chat functions are kind of turning into a supernatural encyclopedia. There is of course the grimorie section, which consists mostly of rituals and spells Peter has deemed useful and some of which she recognizes; there is even a little _E_ surrounded by a star next to the spells she's used and, at the bottom, what she's used them for, which is an eye for detail that is frankly baffling to Ella. However, it's the bestiary that she's more focused on, scrolling through a giant list of supernatural creatures that have been coded as _Friendlies_ and _Big Bads_. Ella is in the middle of being grimly amused to find that this second of the app is also marked with the same E-and-star and a link to the spell that was used.

She's marveling at how comprehensive - and _definitely_ how time-consuming - the app is when she notices someone step through the barrier of the ward around the store. Ella straightens, tucking her phone into her back pocket and waiting for Black to step through the bell-ringing doorway.

Ella hasn't really laid eyes on Black since 2015, if she's being technical about it, so she's a bit taken aback by how unchanged he is since she last saw him. She also isn't really sure what a shaman would want in her magic shop. It isn't like she's selling spell ingredients and esoteric magical books like the hag and she really doubts that Black need any of the enchanted wares she has lining her shelves. But as a credit to the way he's helped in the past, she makes a pointed effort to be as friendly as she ever is.

"Professor Black," she greets with a mild smile. "How can I help you today?"

Black looks around the shop. "Nice place," he comments idly. He doesn't move from the middle of the shop floor, seemingly content to talk at her across the room. "You know, when Carlisle asked me to look at your portfolio so you could be accepted to Viridity's art program, I thought you would stick to that path. Certainly had the talent for it."

"Things change," she says dispassionately.

"Yes, they certainly do." Black lets his words hang in the air between them for a long moment and Ella furrows her brows. He seems content to just look at her with those fathomless dark eyes and though she'd never admit it out loud, its more than a little unnerving when his mouth suddenly moves into a wide, pleased smile. "Your magical pathways aren't knotted anymore. That's good."

Ella shrugs flippantly. "I had a little help."

"The other magician," Black says knowingly.

For a beat, Ella feels a spark of protective anger - but she bites it back, remembering that for all that Black doesn't exactly participate in the town council, he _is_ still a member and had likely been involved in arranging Alec's stay in Charmstone. Of course he knows about Alec. She doesn't need to be defensive about it.

Ella stares at Black silently, borrowing a tactic of Anthony's that works remarkably well for her, though she adapts it with an arched brow.

"I've been hearing some chatter," Black tells her bluntly.

"About?"

"Hunters," he answers casually. "Near Michigan and migrating east. They seem to share a familiar favor for manchineel ash."

Ella's posture shifts, her mind sharpening. "Why're you telling _me_?" she demands, curling her fingernails into the meat of her palms, an edge of old rage gripping her heart. "Surely the town council would want to know about this."

Black smiles enigmatically. "Yes, but you'll actually do something about it, won't you?"

She doesn't respond and she doesn't have the time to - because in the next moment, the wards around the store ripple again, announcing to her the return of Jane. And Alec, apparently. Ella is still leveling Black with a narrow-eyed stare when Jane and Alec slip into the store, both of them pausing on the threshold as they take in the strained tension Ella is exuding.

Black pays them little mind. "I'll let you know if I hear anything else - but it might be best to prepare," he says to her before he steps around Alec and exits the door.

Jane and Alec stare after him. And then Jane, a little bemused, asks, "Who was _that_?"

"A cryptic asshole," Ella says flatly.

Alec is still staring at the door that Black had left through; after a few more moments, he seems to shake himself out of the conversation he'd probably been having with Akira and turns to Ella with a pensive expression. "That was a shaman," he says.

Ella takes the styrofoam container of jalapeño cheeseburger that Jane hands her and rolls her eyes at Alec. "Yeah, I know."

"No, but -" Alec pauses and then says with greater weight, "That was a _shaman_."

Ella blinks at him. " _I know_ ," she repeats.

Alec's brows pinch together. "Do you know what a shaman is?"

Ella snorts. "Obviously-"

"No," Alec says shortly. His rudeness in cutting her off is so damn strange that both she and Jane stare at him with varied degrees of bewilderment. " _Obviously_ you don't know what a shaman is, because if you did, you wouldn't be so relaxed as you are now."

Jane frowns fretfully, setting aside the veggie burger she'd been about to bite into. "Are they dangerous?"

Alec's rigidity softens in the face of the tiny voice Jane adopts when she is struck by fear. He sighs, long and drawn out. "Not usually," he hedges.

Ella scowls. "But you think _Black_ is dangerous? Right?"

Alec meets her hard gaze. "You have to understand - shamans are hybrids, born out of the union of a shapeshifter and a magician. _Always_ a magician. Your children, should you chose to have any with your werewolf mate, will be shamans, able to both shapeshift and perform magic. Shamans are always extraordinary and exceptionally rare. And I know for a fact that there are no living shamans who are descended from Merlin. Can you say the same for Morgan le Fey?" he asks pointedly, already knowing the answer.

Ella's mind whirls and she shakes her head. "No, but then that would mean that Black is…"

Because if Merlin doesn't have any shaman descendants and if Morgan le Fey's genealogy book is to be believed that _Ella_ is the only living descendant left, then there's only one option to explain Black's existence.

"A descendant of Mordred," Alec finishes bleakly.

"He's helped me in the past," Ella says. She can hear the uncertainty in her own voice, though. Because if Black is a shaman related to the Mordred line of magicians, then what does that _mean_ about the warning he just hand-delivered about the hunters? Is he playing her?

Alec presses his lips together. "Regardless, I wouldn't place too much trust in him. Did you feel his magic? It's almost pitch black."

And no - Ella hasn't felt Black's magic, but she has seen his lifeline and it's always been a color so dark she's never been able to discern if it's actually black, or not. She always just assumed it was a shaman thing, chalking it up to the mystery that shrouds Black all the time.

But either way, just how much of what Alec can sense with his magic is true and how much can be written off to the prejudice that he was raised to believe in?

All Ella really knows is that Black has been helping her any time she asks for it. She's never bothered to question why. And, honestly, that's just plain _stupid_.

She can't believe it took _Alec_ to show her the metaphorical fucking light.

The third time it happens is a week later, halfway through December with snowfall covering every square inch of Charmstone.

Ella is just finishing the final touches on the hoard of wooden puppets she's made for Riley's _Nutcracker_ adaptation for the Christmas Festival that is, coincidentally, _not_ on Christmas. This Christmas booth for the shop will thankfully be the last, unless Peter does something dumb again and signs _The Magic Shop_ up for more town-wide celebrations after the new year. With these puppets done, all she needs to do is finish carving the runic sequences to Riley's choreographed specifications - he's such a pain in the ass sometimes. And then once that's done, she can get back to more important things, like certain masteries of certain spells that she keeps having to put on hold.

As it is, Ella is honestly kind of tired of the walls of her basement workshop, so she doesn't put up so much as a token protest when Alec skips down the stairs. "I've been sent to retrieve you," he says with a lax and cheery expression. Alec, it turns out, _loves_ the snow.

Ella isn't nearly as fond. Something to do with being homeless in the middle of winter, she's sure.

She deposits her paintbrush into a can of paint thinner and wipes her hands on the thighs of her shittiest jeans. "I hope there's coffee with this stupid _Home Alone_ marathon Peter's put together," she grumbles, following him up the steps.

"Better," says Alec. "There's eggnog."

Ella wrinkles her nose. "Gross."

Jane is standing at the counter on the store floor, perfecting a display of a miniaturized Christmas tree that is decorated with mood changing glass-lights, an inclusion to the store's inventory that Bree convinced Ella to make. Jane and Alec are well-matched, even for as tentative and slow as their relationship seems to be, because they both are packed full of truly dismaying amounts of Christmas spirit. In an uncharacteristically bold demand, Jane had mandated a store policy that anyone minding the store _must_ wear reindeer headbands.

Ella burned every picture Peter took of her when it was her turn and enacted a _store-owner's pass_ , much to Jane's disappointment. Never again.

That hasn't stopped Jane, of course, because she's got a twinkling pair atop her head right now and she turns with a smile as Alec and Ella emerge from the basement. "We're just waiting on Alice and Jasper to come back from the diner, and then I'll close up," she promises.

Ella shrugs. It might be her store, but she's really only involved in the day-to-day managing of it in a tertiary way at best. Which she doesn't mind at all because she wouldn't have time to keep up with inventory and the wonky cash register and perform basic functions like eating and sleeping if she didn't have Jane - and occasionally Peter's - help. And for all the work it is, Jane seems to genuinely enjoy it.

She really hopes that lasts once Jane's winter semester at Viridity starts.

Shit. She might actually have to do _interviews_. Oh, God.

Ella is rattled out of her thoughts when the shop's door opens to emit a shivering, well-bundled Seth, who shakes the snow off his feet before moseying further into the store. "You guys still open?" he checks, sounding out of breath.

"For a few more minutes," Jane answers promptly with a warm smile. "Need help finding anything?"

"Yeah, uh, you got any of that enchanted chalk?"

Jane hops to assisting Seth, thankfully requiring exactly zero of Ella's input. Seeing that Jane has everything well in hand, she turns to go up to the loft when Alec's expression catches her attention.

Alec is staring at Seth and he looks perturbed.

Ella raises a brow, leaning toward Alec with a touch of curiosity. "What is it?"

"This boy is…touched by darkness," he says slowly.

Ella sighs. "Well, he did once open a portal to create a minor legion of undead pets."

Alec gapes at her casual tone. "Is he _mad_?" he asks aghast.

Ella shrugs. "He was grieving, or something. But it's Seth - he isn't dark. I have another warlock tutoring him, keeping an eye on him so he doesn't do anymore crazy spells," she says lowly.

They watch as Jane rings up Seth's purchase and Ella even raises her hand in a lackadaisical gesture when Seth waves good-bye before disappearing back out into the snow. And then Alec turns to her and repeats, "That boy is touched by darkness."

Ella is skeptical.

But then again, Alec seems to have a keener sense for the things that Ella misses. And she has to wonder how right he is.

* * *

 **A/N: Hey, time jumps are fun! This chapter wasn't supposed to be this long, but you know, when you're setting things up...Eh. Also wanted to show the differences in the talents possessed by magician lines and do a little world building. Now, if anyone doesn't mind, I've got a bowl of guacamole with my name written all over it.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	183. part 13: 3: pillow talk

**three**

 **pillow talk**

* * *

Ella lets gravity slump her weight against Anthony's chest where she is laying over him, pressed together from hip to thigh, though their difference in size means she can comfortably pillow her chin just over his sternum. He's so damn tall and broad compared to her; he's the only person she's ever met that actually makes her feel physically _small_. He brings her down to earth in so many ways - and right now, he's listening intently as she describes all these _things_ that Alec has been noticing.

Things that Ella _hasn't_ noticed. She's suitably grouchy about it, annoyed at herself for missing things that Alec makes seem so fucking obvious and ruminating over the things hanging in the wind by turns.

"What are you going to do about that?" Anthony wonders, chest rumbling beneath her as he speaks. His tone is neutral and his emotions, what she can sense from him, feel somewhat languid.

He's so relaxed in the face of all this impending fuckery that it's actually kind of irksome and her irritation at _that_ comes out in her tone. "I don't know. What are you doing about _your_ problem?" she snaps with a scowl.

Tony merely raises his scarred brow, never ceasing the warm touch of his palms skimming the curve of her spine beneath her shirt - a stolen navy thermal of his that hangs off her frame, actually. She never feels bad about appropriating his clothes because she knows her wolf is always over the moon when she smells like him, even if he never says it out loud.

But his silent acceptance of her whiplash mood makes guilt churn in her stomach and, feeling chastened, she drops her forehead onto his bare chest. Leave it to Ella to ruin the afterglow. "Sorry," she mumbles into his skin, lips brushing against a cluster of freckles and the dusting of chest hair in the center of his chest. She can still taste him, brine and a tint of his sandalwood soap, on her tongue. "I didn't mean to…"

"It's fine," he says easily.

She turns her head to pillow her cheek over his heart, hearing the thump just below her ear as she turns her eyes up toward him. "It's not. I shouldn't take it out on you."

"I can feel how anxious it's making you, sweetheart." His touch shifts, one palm coming to rest on the dip of her spine in a touch that is blatantly possessive and his other hand coming toward her face, brushing hair back behind her ear. He's so gentle, never rough with her even though he knows she's not as fragile as she looks.

It isn't just his _touch_ that is gentle, though. He handles the whole of Ella with care - always.

"Not anxious, really. Just…it pisses me off," she says with a faint frown.

"Seems like anxiety to me," he counters. Chances are pretty high that he can both feel and smell her emotions; one day, she'll have to ask how _exactly_ he can _smell emotions_ because the whole idea of it is completely bizarre to her. Not today, though.

"Well, you're more in touch with my emotions than I am," she says, leaning into his palm. Kind of helpless to it, really. She just wants to be closer to him _all the time_ and coming to terms with that is a work in progress. This physical intimacy following a tumble in his bed, though, is familiar. Her walls are down for him and she knows it's a gesture that he returns.

Probably why they've made it a habit for their pillow talk to include _serious_ _business_. A bad habit? Maybe. Or maybe not. Communication is important, right?

Ella presses a kiss to his wrist and says, "You don't seem to be in any particular rush, though."

He flows back to the central focus of their conversation with ease. He casts his eyes up to the ceiling, a thoughtful glint in their verdant depths. "Choosing a wolf to complete my pack isn't something that should be rushed. If Ben were old enough, I would accept him as a beta, but since he isn't, I'm relying on my instincts. The third beta has to mesh well with both Bree and Peter, as well as be willing to submit to my wolf. Nothing about that is easy."

When he puts it like that, no, it doesn't sound very easy at all. Both Peter and Bree are big personalities that demand an _acquired_ taste to say the least. And add in that alpha werewolves share a pack bond that allows strong emotions to bleed to other pack members - well, it's a wonder how Anthony stays so sane between his pack and _her_. The way she sees it, he should be full-on Wolfman a hundred percent of the time. The fact that he isn't is both impressive and baffling.

"You don't have anyone in mind - and the deadline is coming up," she reminds him needlessly. His birthday is in less than a month now and it's probably weighing more on his mind than on hers, given all the other shit on their collective plates. "How are you chill about it?"

"Things have a tendency to change very quickly in Charmstone. I'm not sure if you've noticed," he states dryly.

Ella huffs incredulously. "Quickly enough that the perfect beta wolf will just fall into your lap right when you need them to?"

"You did." The seldom-seen grin he directs toward her is positively rakish.

"I also recall threatening you with a botched memory spell," she snarks, poking him between the ribs.

"You call it threatening, I call it flirting."

Ella snorts.

She opens her mouth to retort - but then there is a tug in the back of her mind, the silvery chain connected to Raven snagging her attention with a sense of urgency she hasn't felt in more than a month. Ella sits up in a rush, her head spinning as she feels her mind being pulled two or so miles away, her vision blurring as Raven's mind melts into hers; distantly, she knows that she is straddling Anthony's hips and that he's cupping her cheeks with his beautiful face etched in alarm.

 _Raven?_

She doesn't realize she's also spoken out loud until Anthony's hurried demands to know what's going on abruptly fall silent. And still, that observation is only on the fringe of her awareness as she stares unblinkingly forward, her minds eye filled with Raven's birds-eye view of the town. Raven is flying over the town square, which has fallen pitch black in the early morning dawn, the snowy streets bare of people.

 _There is darkness_ , Raven intones succinctly.

Ella is pretty sure Raven isn't just referring to the town-wide blackout that seems to be mushrooming from the central ley line convergence in the middle of the town square.

"Shit," she curses ineloquently, blinking rapidly as her own sight returns to normal. She scrambles off of Anthony, the carpet chilly beneath her bare feet, and searches for the jeans she'd discarded the night before.

Anthony is quick to follow, tugging on the first clothes his hands touch. "What's going on?" he demands as he pulls his shirt over his head, hair a wild mess from sweat and her fingers tangling in the curls.

She really wishes she had more time to appreciate the way he looks, jeans halfway up his hips and bedhead on shameless display, but they don't have time to waste. Whatever is going on in town needs to be locked down _right now_.

Ella grasps his hand tightly once they're both decent and kisses his chin. "I don't know what's happening, but Raven says there's darkness and there's some kind of energy suck in the middle of town that's causing a blackout," she says swiftly. "I'm going to drop you at your mother's and make the rounds for everyone else -"

"Ella-"

"Raven will keep an eye on things. I won't do anything stupid like rush in alone," she assures him quickly.

He doesn't look _happy_ , of course, but at heart Anthony is a pragmatist - a tactician - and they have spoken of strategies like this in the month of downtime they've had, trying to prepare for these exact kind of scenarios. So he only presses his lips together and curtly says, "I'll alert everyone else."

Ella nods her agreement and with a _pop_ in her ears, teleports them to the porch of his mother's house. "I'll be back in five minutes," she promises.

Anthony doesn't let her leave before one last bruising kiss to her lips.

This isn't really the way she thought their first Christmas together would go - but such is life in Charmstone.

* * *

 **A/N: Aww, you guys, Anthella have doomsday scenarios. Talk about #couplegoals, am I right?**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	184. part 13: 4: no explanation

**four**

 **no explanation**

* * *

Naturally, its been discussed ad nauseam, so Ella knows exactly where she's going after she drops Anthony on Elisabeth Masen's doorstep.

The first steps of any plan of theirs involves two parts - securing the town and rallying the troops - so while Anthony is dragging all the best defensive fighters out of bed and prompting his mother to contact the rest of the town council to incite their own defensive plans, Ella teleports to the four cardinal points at the wards. She flushes the sigils with magic, urging the wards to close in a type of lock-down mode. Nothing is getting in or out without her say-so, which protects both the people in town and the people outside of it.

That done, Ella pops off to the loft to grab her knives, strapping them onto her person even as she borrows Raven's sight again - from Raven's vantage point, she can see that the blackout has spread out to campus and the nearby neighborhoods. All the power in the town proper is long-gone, the entirety of Ella's building is dead quiet and dark as night as she slips through the living room, knocking once on Jane's bedroom door in a perfunctory gesture of courtesy.

"Ella? What…?" Jane's voice trails off, sleepy and confused. Her expression quickly shifts to alarmed once she spots the knife sticking out of Ella's boot and she sits up in bed, eyes bolt wide. "What's happening?"

"I'm locking down the building," Ella tells her briskly. She jerks her chin to Jane's ivory bracelet, which is always around her wrist. "You know the drill - that'll let anyone in who _needs_ shelter from whatever shitstorm is brewing outside. I'll be back to take down the wards when it's safe."

Jane dips her head. "I know the drill," she repeats faintly. Then she bites her lip. "Stay safe, Ella."

Ella doesn't make any promises. She merely lifts her chin in acknowledgement, spins on her heel to stomp to the loft door, and slams her open palm against the sigils carved into the drywall to effectively turn both the store and the apartment into a panic room. And then she is off, her mind running down the internal checklist she's going through.

There's one more security feature she has to see to before she can return to Anthony - and it's the one that he most objects to. It had taken a truly tolling amount of time to convince him that in _every_ scenario where it is possible, it's always best for Ella to be the one to do initial reconnaissance on whatever threat they are up against. Between her magic able to heal her as quickly as a werewolf and her ability to literally disappear in the blink of an eye, Ella is always going to be the best option to get a lay of the land. She's powerful; she's damn near indestructible if Magic is feeling magnanimous; she's the most logical choice.

Anthony only grudgingly agreed when she _swore_ that the only thing she would ever do at this stage - if she could help it - was to lock down the threat behind wards. Which is exactly what she does, pulling her magic around her like a shadowy cloak to hide her from detection, creeping closer to the town square and the tangibly thick darkness glutting all the light away. The darkness is almost like a miasma, a choking layer of cinder and ozone pressing against her skin, almost pushing her _down_.

She wades in a wide circle around the town square, hands skimming unopened businesses as she trails magic behind her, stopping every once in a while to use the tip of a knife to scratch a hasty rune into concrete or brick. It's a relief that it's so early because random townspeople aren't milling about, but it's also unnerving because the sun _should_ be rising, but all the heavy shadow has blocked out the light and she can tell that it's getting thicker by the minute. Raven indicates that the darkness is also spreading, as if the shadow grows stronger the more it siphons off town electricity.

Nothing ever good can come of something with an appetite like that.

Ella has just finished erecting the wards around the town square - starkly silver against the darkness and strong enough to be visible to the naked eye - when she sees him. She doesn't know if its because her eyes have adjusted to the darkness or because the darkness seems to be rising in the sky, its shape and scope distressingly familiar, but Ella _knows_ exactly who is standing beneath the swirling vortex with his arms over his head.

"You fucking _idiot_ ," she hisses, even though she knows he can't hear her.

God, but she could kill him.

Fucking _Seth_.

By the skin of her teeth, Ella manages to resist the very strong urge to barge through her ward and physically knock some sense into Seth. She's already pushed past the five minute estimate she'd given her wolf and she doesn't want to worry Anthony any more than strictly necessary. Gritting her teeth, Ella teleports back to him, allowing their bonded lifelines to pull her in his direction.

The tense line of his shoulders relax the second she appears in front of him and she thinks that if they were _different_ , if they weren't leaders, that their reunion might have been more of a display; there are people, his _mother_ and her pack of able-bodied wolves, all around the Masen house, most of them on edge. As it is, Anthony seems to content himself with inhaling her unharmed scent, savoring it for a moment before he says, "The fae are prepared to evacuate if necessary, the trolls and goblins have been dispersed to the forest, banshees are in route to the hospital, Carlisle has alerted the magic-users to stay and protect neighbors if they can, and Mom is working with the CPD to dispatch wolves to soft target locations."

"And our people?" she asks.

"Waiting to hear what you know," he returns promptly.

Ella grimaces, her tone sour. "Seth is doing _something_ stupid," she says. "If it's anything like his last little experiment, we're going to need all the assistance we can get."

Anthony's jaw twitches. "Necromancy, then?"

"That would be my guess. I didn't exactly get a great view, but it's all locked down for now." Ella pauses. "No telling how long it'll last, though. Better get everyone useful to the town square."

She waits for the few moments it takes him to tap on his phone, alerting their group through the app. When his phone is tucked back into his pocket, he reaches for her hand, squeezing her fingers as she teleports them both into town.

Ella lets out a gust of air when they find their feet. She isn't winded or strained yet, but she can certainly tell that she's just used a _lot_ of magic in a very short span of time. Any other magic user wouldn't be able to do it without a trade soaked in blood and maybe not even then. What helps Ella is the way she is connected to the land. Her natural store of magic might be incredibly vast, but should she ever falter, she has the boost of Charmstone to keep the wind in her sails.

Except -

Except the convergence of ley lines in the center of the town square are _squealing_ in protest - almost as if in pain - and Ella can tell that the natural magical currents are being twisted. It instantly reminds her of how the ley lines felt in the wake of the hag, the _wrongness_ of it, a critical sort of imbalance.

She loathes it.

"Christ," Anthony grumbles as he steps around her, already laser-focused with a flash of green eyes and claws sharpening the tips of his fingers. He glares into the dark shroud locked behind her ward, clearing trying to gauge the situation himself. He looks back to her with a scowl. "You said Seth did this? One guy?"

"You'd be surprised just how much you can do with one dark ritual," she says flatly.

She knows from experience - both with the hag and with the pixies.

"Is it like before?"

"With the zombie pets?" Ella shrugs, directing her eyes upward to the vortex overhead, which crackles with grotesquely purple and black energy. "No way to tell until we get closer."

"I don't scent any death," he announces after a moment, head tilted back as he subtly sniffs the air. "Could be hidden by all the magic, though."

"So, basically, we're blind," she mutters, pacing a restless circle.

She hates that she has to wait around, to sit on the boiling rage building beneath the surface because it's the smarter thing to do. She wants to charge forward and end this before it can really begin - and she's just beginning to convince herself to do just that, damn the inevitable fight with Anthony for her recklessness, when the rest of their group, the ones capable of fighting, turn up. Bree skids in from one direction; Peter stumbles in from behind, tripping over his own feet in his haste, and Alec, panting and flushed, isn't far behind him.

Ella stares at them impassively as they react to the heavy darkness trying to bleed outside of her ward, her foot tapping impatiently as Anthony fills them in. Any other time, she might have been entertained by the way Peter whines, _Oh man_ or the way Alec blanches once he gets a taste of the dark magic pressing all around.

But as it is, all she says is, "Can we get this over with?"

Bree tuts at her and Peter says, "At your leisure, oh great leader. Onward to defeat the Zombie Master."

Ella narrows her eyes at him. "You're lucky I'm saving all my annoyance for Seth."

Without further dithering, Ella steps through the silvery wards, making a conscious effort to allow everyone else through before she tightens them again with a bend of her fingers. The magician's glass on her hands glow a soft silver-white amid all the darkness. As they walk closer to the epicenter, as they finally come to stand beneath the gaping void in the sunless sky over the town square, the sheer weight of all that darkness begins to make her limbs feel weighed down by lead. She remains standing by the virtue of being a magician, as does Alec, but the werewolves are all hunched under the pressure.

Seth doesn't notice them - and it's no wonder. He looks about as wrong as the magic feels, his pupils dilated so wide only a thin strip of brown iris is visible, his skin oddly ashen, thin rivets of blood running down his ears and nose.

And all around him, brushing around his legs and hissing at their approach, are macabre versions of ill-proportioned cats - lopsided, lumpy, half-skinned, and distorted by shadow that winds around them like smoke, their eye sockets filled with shadow and ash falling from their bloodied maws.

"Oh, great. Zombie cats," Peter says in a disturbed tone.

"I think I might be sick," Bree concludes after a moment.

"I knew it," Alec says beneath his breath.

Ella's stomach churns. Even _she_ can sense how twisted all this is. Something has to be done. She glances at Anthony, who pulls his lips back to reveal his fangs with an anticipatory growl, and then she nods.

Ella summons a palm of silver magic, lobbing it toward Seth - and that is when it all breaks loose.

Seth stumbles, falling on his ass as all of the shadow-zombie-cats charge forward. Ella's magic is right under her skin and it takes less than a thought for her to avoid the cats, popping right in front of Seth with her fingers twisting silver strands of magic into restraints. She doesn't waste any time in also hitting the butt of her palm against his forehead, magically rendering him unconscious.

Behind her is a bedlam of sounds, growls and high-pitched yowling and curses. With Seth temporarily taken care of, she turns her attention to the next biggest threat, which is the cats that _obviously_ are much harder to kill than initially assumed.

"Holy God!" Peter cries frantically, dodging a set of claws. "How do you kill these things?"

Bree swipes at the cats around her. She digs her claws into one and flings it into a bench with a loud _crunch_ of bones; the cat rolls to its feet a moment later and charges at her again with single-minded focus. "Not like that!" she shouts, punting another across the square.

Alec, for his part, seems to be doing his best to buffer the cats away, trapping them in white orbs that they eventually break out of. But there seems to be something almost clinical about his methods, like he's studying the creatures. When he has a free second, a white streak shimmers from his back and Akira stomps his feet on the ground, antlers busting cats away from his magician.

Ella flips a knife in her palm, charging it with magic before flinging it forward at a cat coming at Anthony's blind spot; her knife sinks into the cat, magic sizzling as the cat hisses angrily and then slumps into a mound of ash. "That works!" she calls out to the group.

"Well, we can't all do magic tricks!" Peter yells, ducking down as one of the cats Bree kicks goes flying in his direction. He glares hotly at the other werewolf and says, "That's a dick move, dude!"

"Sorry, not sorry!" Bree returns with a growl.

Peter's right, though. There are a lot of the cats which seem to form out of the shadows; given how resilient they are and the fact that only Ella's magic has been an effective means of getting rid of them, this isn't a sustainable plan.

Alec is looking up at the void above them and with calculation he says, "We need to shut that down."

Ella throws another knife, still protecting Anthony's blind spot even as she sends out darts of silver fire at the cats around her. There just seem to be more and more everywhere she looks. She huffs when her knife makes its mark and flicks her narrowed gaze to Alec. "And how do you suggest we do _that_?"

"We make it ours!" he shouts.

"Is that a thing we can do?"

"I've read about it!"

"Me too!" Peter pipes in. He seems to have adopted Bree's kicking method, albeit less gracefully. "And isn't that what you did when Necromancer Ned over there did this the first time?"

 _Kind of_ , she wants to say, because she _did_ close down that last zombie void in Seth's dorm by just throwing magic at it to force it shut. And last time, Anthony had been able to keep the undead pets away from her while she did her thing, something which is a bit more challenging now _. And_ even with Alec's magic and the ley lines, she doesn't know if it's possible to do the same thing with a void this _big_ \- especially because it's getting bigger by the second, still drawing power from the town's electricity.

And but - she can't just _not try_.

"Worth a shot," she mutters. And then louder she says, "We won't be able to do fuckall if we have to be watching our backs with these cats!"

Anthony grunts, drawing her attention just in time to see him rip one of the shadow cats clean in half and instead of the gore she expects, the separate pieces of the cats drift into ash. His triumphant grin is full of fangs. "Let us worry about that. Close that damn portal."

Only even with three werewolves ripping the cats into ash, it isn't easy to close the void. It's massive and it fights back, like something on the other side is trying to keep it open. She and Alec are both shooting silver and white magic up at it, sweating and swaying on their feet, by the time Alec seems to come to a realization. He gasps at her side and rasps out, "It's a shadow dimension!"

"For fuck's sake, _what is that_?" Ella demands, out of breath.

Alec shakes his head. "Shadows live there…minds of their own," he gasps out.

" _Great_ ," Ella grits out.

"We need to get this closed before something other than shadow animals come out," he says urgently.

"That's what we're _trying_ to do!"

"Try harder!" Alec snaps.

And something about that - about the utter lack of serenity that Alec usually possesses, about the way he's so driven to work at her side and ignore the dusty, shadowy slaughter around them - strikes a nerve in Ella.

She thought she knew everything about her magical core, thought that she had learned every knotted crook and cranny of it as she learned - and maintained - the balance of her magic. But it seems she has a hidden depth tucked away somewhere because an extra surge of magic is scooped out of her - and then the ground is shuddering beneath her feet, the magic in the land rising up around her, using Ella as a conduit.

Time seems to slow.

She can feel gravity reversing around her, her hair floating up around her face as her arms stretch toward the void overhead, the silver of her magic burning brighter and brighter.

Time stops.

She can _feel_ it stop - and if teleportation is a _desperation_ to be _anywhere but here_ , then controlling time is the unflinching _confidence_ that she is _in control_ , even blistering with anger and fueled by protectiveness.

Time might stop, but magic does not. Magic transcends time and space. And in that long moment, Ella _becomes_ Magic itself, not just a mere conduit. Magic builds in her, stretching her ribs and her joints, spreading through every cell, and then to every atom, and then even smaller.

Ella _exhales_ -

And time starts again -

A burst of magic erupts from her hand, such a bright silver that it hurts to look at, all the colors in the rainbow caught in the lightning-bolt shimmer as it crackles and surges and pours out of her palms -

Magic strikes against the void, an ear-splitting impact -

The void winks out of existence and the thick, smoggy layer of shadows around the town square dissipate in the morning sun.

Ella blinks and lists to the side, caught by Alec, who stares at her in awe. "True neutrality," he breathes. "Astounding."

She blinks again, mouth tacky and limbs shivering as if in the aftermath of electrocution. She can't move her feet and so she looks down, sucking in a gasp to see blackened vines grown firmly over her boots, crawling up her ankles; she looks around further, the charred circle in which she stands fading into a truly lush expanse covering every inch of the town square. Something about the magic she's just connected with had simultaneously been both life and death. That must be what Alec means about _true neutrality_ , or whatever.

There will be time to think about that - and stopping time to join with Magic - when this is over.

Which it isn't.

Something in the air is still _disturbed_.

Ella pulls free of the vines and gains her footing, turning to meet Anthony's worried glance with a reassuring nod. She was a little dizzy for a moment and she could stand to drink some water, but she'll be _fine_.

For now, Seth has to be dealt with.

The wolves stand back as Ella makes her way to Seth's side. Peter catches Alec's elbow when he goes to follow and says, "Ella's the representation for magic-users in town, so she needs to handle it."

"Handle what?" Alec asks, confused.

Ella looks over her shoulder. "Punishment," she says darkly.

Alec rears back in shock.

Anthony looks on stoically.

And Ella crouches down by Seth's side. Slapping him awake is definitely satisfying, but not as satisfying as the naked fear on his face once he catches her black expression.

"I can explain-"

"No explanations," Ella says shortly, cutting him off as she summons a knife to her hand, her magic snapping to attention eagerly. She pins Seth with a dissatisfied frown. "No more explanations. No more second chances."

"I was just curious-"

Ella snaps her fingers and Seth's lips clamp together. "I told you before that I won't tolerate any of this kind of bullshit from my people," she says almost conversationally, pushing the sleeve of Seth's dark sweater up to his elbow. "This town gets enough trouble without the people living here adding to it, Seth, and I don't plan on giving you a chance to make a third strike."

Ella places the tip of her knife to his forearm and Seth makes a muffled sound of protest, trying ineffectually to wiggle away from her. She pauses for a moment, closing her eyes as she comes to terms with what she's about to do, even if it is for the best.

"I hope you enjoyed magic while you still had access to it," she tells Seth dispassionately.

And then she does to Seth what was twice done to her - she carves a bloody sigil onto his arm and locks his magic away from him, rendering him essentially human. He'll be lucky if he can learn the parlor tricks and slight of hand after this. Thinking about the complete disaster his dark curiosity could have led to, Ella doesn't feel even the slightest bit sorry about it, even if such a heinous action does turn her stomach. She's kind enough to heal the wound she makes.

She does what has to be done.

Ella stands when it's done, wiping her knife on the leg of her jeans before she tucks it away, a blank expression on her face. Alec looks positively _green_ and Peter visibly winces away.

Anthony meets her gaze steadfastly, a mirthless sort of acceptance radiating from him. He understands and she is so _relieved_ -

Then Bree's head snaps to the side, her eyes chasing _something_. "Did anyone else see that?"

"See what?" Peter asks.

"A shadow," Bree says.

A beat passes.

And a scream rips into the air.

* * *

 **A/N: No real cats were harmed in the making of this chapter, although I _really_ can't say the same for Seth. Ella is the Queen of Necessary Evils. Also, my hand slipped. _Whoops_.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	185. part 13: 5: flowers up

**five**

 **flowers up**

* * *

When they heard the scream, the first thing Ella felt was a flash of disappointment. If someone is screaming like _that_ , then that means that something escaped the shadow dimension before the vortex closed and it means that even with all the precautions that had been taken to isolate the town, Ella had _still_ failed. Despite her best efforts to the contrary, someone still got hurt.

Ella had lifted her head in the direction of the scream, magician's vision flickering into view almost by rote as she tries to deduce _who_ and _how far away_ and _where_. The lifeline in the distance seems to dip behind the high school, its gleam the vibrant hue that all potentials share, and its color -

Oh.

"No," Bree breathes a second later, head cocked to the side and nose still lifted in the air. She is utterly still for a moment, brow furrowed as she tries to understand what all of her enhanced senses are telling her. "No," she says again, like the very thought is impossible.

And then Bree is off like a shot, lunging into movement as her skin ripples against the shift, and Ella doesn't bother hesitating or wasting time explaining. Anthony is already following after his sister and Peter and Alec will both get with the program soon enough.

Ella twists in place, _popping_ out of the town square and appearing nearly on top of a face she's seen more and more often recently. She spares the most fleeting second to check that whatever had escaped the shadow dimension is gone, but the damage has already been done, a supernatural crime scene in the middle of a high school sports field littered with colorful plastic cones and soccer balls splattered in blood.

McKayla - _Bree's_ McKayla - is bleeding out at her feet. Her throat is torn open, a wound that starts just beneath her jaw and zig-zags over her chest, bisecting her torso and a wash-faded blue sweatshirt nearly in half. McKayla is on her back, limbs splayed akimbo, eyes wide and unseeing as she gurgles on her own blood, twitching every few seconds from shock or pain. And her lifeline, that pale pink that seems so incongruous with the athlete, is thinning as time stretches out, unwinding and pulling back from Bree's soul.

It isn't the time, but part of Ella can't help but wonder _why_ McKayla was out practicing soccer so early when there was a town-wide lockdown. How did McKayla slip through the cracks? How can Ella prevent a tragedy like this from happening again?

McKayla gives a ragged gasp, more blood bubbling from her lips, and Ella's magic manifests around her, almost pulled from her core against her will.

Her wrists twist, fingers bending and clenching with silvery weaves of energy. Ella takes magical hold of McKayla's lifeline and _grips_ , refusing to let the pale pink dwindle anymore than it already has; and at the same time, she presses magic against McKayla's injuries, trying to slow the bleeding, trying to do _anything_ she can to save someone who is loved by someone Ella loves. It's a futile effort, she knows. Ella might be able to bring herself back from the brink of death, but Peter's traumatic transformation more than proved that she cannot do the same for someone else.

But she can buy time - and Bree can say goodbye.

In real time, Ella only beat Bree and the others to the high school by thirty or so seconds, so it isn't long before Bree is skidding on her knees down on frosty grass, reaching for McKayla with trembling hands and tears in her eyes. "Mickie! _No_ , Mickie, baby - _no_ ," Bree keens tearfully.

Ella hasn't ever someone so utterly and unabashedly shattered. It makes her uncomfortable to witness something like this, but at the same time she can't turn away, even as her magic slips ineffectually against McKayla.

And then Anthony is there, kneeling on McKayla's other side near Ella's feet, intelligent eyes calmly and efficiently assessing the situation. His mouth tightens, jaw ticking rapidly, and he looks up at Ella. She can feel his helplessness through their bond.

There isn't anything they can do.

Bree sobs brokenly, the swing of her wildly dyed hair hiding her face from view as she peppers McKayla's cheeks with kisses, her fingers clutching at a lax hand in her own. Ella can't hear it, but she's sure that McKayla's heart is stuttering by now. It'll be over soon.

Except -

"She's a potential," Ella blurts.

His nostrils flare, a glimmer in his green eyes. "I know, I can tell. But the bite would never take with this much blood loss."

He's probably right.

"It worked for me," Peter says softly from behind, almost a whisper.

Anthony and Ella lock eyes, a silent conversation held in a single look.

It's worth a try.

And then Ella is breathing deeply, gathering magic and coiling it around McKayla's fading lifeline as Anthony pushes Bree away gently. Bree fights back with a snarl, snapping at her brother until Peter crawls behind her and pulls her back against his chest, holding her down as best he can while Anthony ignores her rabid growls. Anthony pulls the neck of McKayla's sweatshirt down, lips curling away from his teeth as his eyes gleam golden-green, and something about that must finally break through Bree's grief-ridden hysteria.

"Save her! Save her, please, save her!" she cries desperately, still fighting Peter's hold, eyes locked on the swift, economical bite Anthony delivers to the top of McKayla's ruined shoulder.

He pulls back after several long moments, blood smeared around his mouth, and they all wait as Ella pours all the healing spells she knows into McKayla, keeping her heart beating and her lungs breathing long enough for the bite to take.

Ella knows it happens first. She can see it in the thin spiral of lupine gold weaving itself through her pale pink lifeline, not at all unlike the way lupine gold stretches alongside Peter's loud orange. She exhales in relief and steels herself to help McKayla's body along until werewolf healing kicks in. And soon after, Anthony's eyes flare an arresting shade of glowing verdant, all the gold in them completely gone as a third beta slots herself into his pack. And seeing that, Bree's cries of despair transition into ones of happiness and Peter releases her with a grin.

Ella completely forgets about Alec until he appears at her elbow, his expressive pensive as he says, "You interfered with her death."

"We saved her life," Ella corrects unflinchingly.

Alec frowns. "I…am not sure what to think," he confesses. "My magic can create and dark magic can destroy, but yours…does both and you seem to have no reservations about how you use your magic at all. Violence, recreation, and profit sit alongside neatly with healing, protection, and creation. It is…unsettling."

Slowly, Ella eases back on her hold on McKayla's lifeline, reassured by its steadiness and the way she can see the slow knit of her injuries. She side-eyes Alec with a raised brow. "We can talk about that later. The fallout from Seth's stupidity isn't over. There's still _something_ from that vortex in town and my work isn't done," she says bluntly. Then she dips her head toward the pack of werewolves and says, "But if you could help, wouldn't you at least try?"

"I suppose," Alec agrees hesitantly.

Ella can't help but wonder if his father hadn't fucked up his morality beyond repair - like, just _what_ had Solomon taught Alec that made him question saving a life? Seriously.

She sighs sharply and musters all of her focus. "I need you to take Bree and McKayla back to the shop. You and Jane watch over them and contact us if anything goes wrong," she says in a tone that invites zero argument.

Alec straightens. "Of course," he agrees simply. "What will you do?"

"Hunt."

* * *

 **A/N: Who saw that one coming?**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	186. part 13: 6: have you seen my shadow

**six**

 **have you seen my shadow?**

* * *

Ella has gone right past being pissed to outright raging.

Six hours. Two injured humans, seven werewolves, one ghoul, a goblin, a troll just barely hanging on to its life, and a newly turned werewolf still healing in her loft. And _fuck all_ to show for it. Doesn't seem to matter how much she pops back and forth across town, she can't seem to keep up with the shadow. Aside from being hard to catch and harder to track - it has no scent and only the barest hint of magic that she can sense - the shadow is slippery as _fuck_. The _one_ time she'd had it encircled in a globe of magic, it had managed to escape.

To top it off, unlike the zombie shadow cat things, the slip of the shadow doesn't seem phased at all by her magic or her knives. Which means that Ella is essentially _neutered_ \- and beyond being magically exhausted at this point, relying almost totally on the natural magical currents beneath her feet to keep charged, Ella is beginning to worry about the town.

Whatever the shadow is, it can hurt people. And there is no guarantee that everyone will stay indoors until the threat is cleared; sure, in-the-know humans will probably hedge their bets and the Viridity campus is fortified against shit like this, but there _are_ ignorant humans in Charmstone and it might be snowing, but it isn't like there's a blizzard, or anything. Two of them had already been dumb enough to venture out against Mayor Newton's edict, which meant that _more_ humans from the hospital had had to venture out to save their sorry lives.

She thanks a God she doesn't believe in that the shadow doesn't seem interested in phasing through walls and entering buildings. Yet.

Peter is sent to Seth's apartment to suss out _what the fuck_ Seth had done and reports back that Seth has apparently been poking around on the dark web; by mid-morning, between Peter and Jasper hashing it out over the phone, the conclusion is drawn that sending the shadow back to its dimension is a no-go. Which is fine as far as Ella is concerned, because that vortex was hard enough to close in the first place and she doesn't exactly relish the opportunity to do black magic just to undo Seth's monumental screw up. But that doesn't change the fact that Peter and Jasper haven't yet figured out how _to get rid of the shadow_. Evidently, while the ritual to open a shadow dimension is on the internet, dealing with the shit that comes out of that dimension is suspiciously absent.

 _Because of course it is_.

And while Anthony expresses a plain dislike for that kind of shit being available to _anyone_ who knows how to use the dark web, Ella could care less. As far as she's concerned, that's not her problem. That's something The Coterie could deal with.

All she wants to do is get rid of the shadow and _sleep_ , because using magic at the moment is getting into blood-from-a-stone territory. They need a solution and Ella clearly isn't going to be enough this time.

Instinctually, she knows that the shadow is eluding her because her magic has been brought into perfect balance; she's no longer tainted by the hag's ritual from last year or her own ritual with the pixies, so whatever kind of darkness is in her magic isn't enough to entice the shadow, especially since there's _also_ a buffer of light magic, too. The shadow won't submit to her because she isn't dark enough, and at the same time she doesn't have enough pure light might to outright kill it, either. Ella and the shadow basically cancel each other out, according to Raven.

Too bad about Alec's morals, or whatever, because he'd certainly have enough light magic to take the thing down. But then again, Alec is _supposed_ to be under the radar lest his magic be tracked by The Order, so maybe it's a good thing he doesn't volunteer to help anymore than he already has. It was a big enough risk that he helped shut down the vortex earlier.

"We need another option," Anthony rumbles. He's been steadily growing more agitated the longer they keep running around making zero progress; but unlike Ella, who broadcasts her irritation loudly, Anthony sinks more readily into a foreboding mood. Quieter than usual, brows fused together in a unapproachable scowl.

Ella makes a face. They're standing at the turn into one of Charmstone's neighborhoods on the southern side of town and she's squinting into the noon-day sun, hands on her hips and fingers digging into her flesh to prevent tired tremors from showing. She loses track of the shadow as soon as she finds it, her magic straining futility.

 _He's right_ , she thinks, gnawing on her lower lip. _But what other option do we have?_

A tingle flows through Raven's side of the bond. _There is one person who you have not considered_.

Ella abruptly straightens. "Oh, God. I didn't even _think_ of him," she mutters.

"Who?" Anthony asks sharply.

"Black," she answers, ignoring his tone in the same way that he ignores hers. "Alec thinks Black is probably a descendant of Mordred, the same way I'm descended from Merlin and Morgan le Fey. And if family lineage holds true, then Black should have some sort of affiliation for dark magic. Maybe enough to do something to the shadow."

Hell, his _last name_ is _Black_. Given that he's at least partially Native American, she's sure it isn't a coincidence. But Ella doesn't know if Black even has that kind of magic. Sure, he apparently commands some kind of astral plane where his familiar, a hulking black bear, resides and he obviously has some penchant for healing magics given that he'd patched her up during her time in the past. Neither of those things mean that he can actually perform the kind of magic that is required for the shadow, though.

"Think he'd help?"

Ella shrugs. "Worth a shot," she mumbles, reaching for his clawed hand and _popping_ the both of them out to Black's cabin in the woods. Ella is winded when they land and Anthony shoots her a look prickling with concern under all his frustration. She waves him away. "Don't worry about me. Let's just get this over with."

They don't even get to knock on the door before Black is opening it and stepping out onto his front porch. The cabin looks the same as it had three years ago and Black, with one side of his long hair tucked behind an ear, looks them over with an assessing glance. "What brings a werewolf and a magician to my door in the middle of a crisis?"

Ella narrows her eyes. "You know what's going on?"

"I'd have to be blind not to notice some hopped-up warlock got stupid enough to rip open a shadow dimension. And I'm not blind," Black says.

"We need your help," Anthony says plainly.

Black's expression doesn't change, his fathomless black eyes tracking between them placidly before settling on Ella. "I see," he says after a moment, shifting away from the doorjamb. "You got your magic balanced and now you're at a disadvantage."

"I know about the blood running through your veins," she says with a challenging stare.

Black tips his head to the side. "That so? 'Bout time you noticed, kid."

"Can you help or not?" Anthony demands.

"Depends," Black answers sedately, unmoved by the urgency of the situation. "What are you dealing with?"

They tell him about the shadow that Ella can't catch and she watches with a faint sense of relief that Black looks disturbed to learn about how many people a _shadow_ has already injured. It's nice to think that while Alec sensed dark magic in Black, he's wrong to be wary of him; Black might be dark, but he's ultimately _good_. Probably. At the very least, descendant of Mordred or not, he isn't a complete asshole and he agrees to help deal with the shadow because, as he puts it, _he's the only one that can_.

Black tells Anthony and Ella to stay inside the cabin after he gathers a mortar filled with sage and the shavings from a yew tree. Apparently, the shadow might not come to Black's call if it senses that Ella is near and the cabin, she can tell once she's inside, is warded to be hidden once Black activates the spell.

She watches through the window as Black uses a stick to draw a pentagram in the middle of his yard; he kneels in the center and spends several long minutes creating a mixture with the mortar, which he then streaks across his brow and over his cheekbones. Black mutters something and the pentagram flares a dark sage crackling with electricity - and then he waits, sitting back on his ankles with his palms open to the sky.

She isn't sure what he's waiting for until she spots the shadow streaking directly toward him from the sky and that's when she understands. He's just done some kind of cannibalized summoning ritual, and it might have been worrying that he possessed that kind of knowledge off the top of his head, but Ella doesn't know exactly how shaman's _work_. And she can't waste the energy wondering about how Black knows what he knows when he's actually helping them.

Of course, when Black reaches his hands out to the shadow, she feels a stab of nerves - because they hadn't really talked about what Black would be doing beyond his assurances that he "can handle it".

But to her dismay, the shadow seeps toward him, flowing right into the pentagram without hesitation. Like calls to like; dark magic calling to a shadow and being answered. No, not so much answered as _absorbed_. Because that's what Black does - he absorbs the damn shadow in one big inhalation and then quickly stands, snuffing away the dirt-drawn pentagram with his bare toes.

"What the _fuck_?" Ella breathes. "He just ate the shadow."

Anthony seems to be in a similar state of disbelief.

And then Ella curses again - more loudly - and spins away from the window to dart out of the cabin, evading Anthony's grasping hands when he tries to draw her back, his eyes catching on the same disturbing sight as hers. "Hey!" she yells, waving a hand of fatigued magic at Black's back as he strides toward his cabin. "Hey, _wait_ , that thing is - The shadow is _on_ you -"

Black blinks, slow and lazy. "Not to worry," he says mildly. "The shadow is mine now."

"What?"

Her old professor tilts his head. "It is odd that you can see my shadow, but that is the work of neutral magic, I suppose. What shape has it taken?"

Ella stares at Black for several seconds, then lets out a gust of air, rubbing at the headache forming in the center of her forehead. Okay. Black ate the shadow and, like, made it his bitch and _now_ his actual shadow is _fucking sentient_ and looks like a massive bear. Okay.

"It's a bear," she tells him flatly.

Interest sparks in Black's dark eyes. "Interesting. Well, if the shadow has taken the form of my familiar, then there truly isn't anything to worry about. The threat is contained."

Sure it is.

And Ella has known for a while that magic can be _super_ weird - it really hasn't escaped her notice and she hasn't become desensitized to it yet. But this really takes the cake for strange shit that magic has done and it has been a long, long Christmas morning and she finds herself speechless. And drained.

She just _cannot_ at the moment. So all she says is a muted, " _Great_ " as her shoulders droop.

The shadow is gone; the vortex is closed; the injured are seeking help; there's a new werewolf in her loft; and shamans are enigmatic as _fuck_. They can call off the town-wide lockdown and she can fix the ley lines in the town square later. She's totally _done_ for the day.

Just - _done_.

* * *

 **A/N: And I thought a case of the Mondays was bad. Whew. Moving on!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	187. part 13: 7: who

**seven**

 **who**

* * *

The problem with doing first and asking questions later is the inevitable surprise of discovery. In this case, while it was nice and everything that the bite had saved McKayla's life, it isn't so great that they'd all been ignorant of _who_ exactly McKayla _is_ \- aside from being the type of dedicated athlete that finds joy in practicing at the crack ass of dawn, that is.

"You bit a _Newton_?" Peter bleats in dismay, practically vibrating out of his skin as he stands next to the couch where McKayla is currently sitting. He'd been trying to give her a crash course on how to control her claws, insisting that he'd be a better teacher than Bree because of both being a bitten wolf and the lack of conflict of romantic interest.

And McKayla had rolled with it, altogether responding _much_ better than Peter to the discovery that she is now a creature of the moonlight. There had been less pop culture references, at least, and Ella felt relatively confident that her loft, which has somehow become New Werewolf Central, will survive reasonably unscathed because of how well McKayla was picking up Peter's slightly-questionable wisdom. But then she'd made a passing comment about how her father would be _so_ _relieved to hear that his furniture would be safe from wolfy temper tantrums_ and Peter had asked who her father was and then McKayla had blinked in confusion. "Uh, you'd probably know him as Mayor Newton," she'd said with a bemused smile. "I swear, he doesn't sweat that much at home. He's just not good at public speaking."

There had been a beat of silence as they all processed that bit of information. It's probably a good thing that Jane is down minding the store while Peter and Anthony had come up to check on McKayla's - and to some extent Bree's - adjustment.

Ella can feel the beginnings of a headache. It's the day after Christmas and she would have liked _one day_ to just not have to deal with this bullshit - and yet.

"Son of a bitch," Anthony grouses, scrubbing a hand through his hair in irritation.

"Don't bring Mom into this," Bree chastises.

Anthony growls at her in warning and Bree shifts uneasily.

McKayla stares at them all in confusion. "Is there some kind of problem?"

"Uh…"

Anthony sighs deeply and looks at his newly turned beta. "Just an unexpected complication. Didn't know you were the mayor's kid before I bit you and now I've got to go talk to him."

"You didn't know?" McKayla asks him, but her eyes are directed toward Bree.

"Was I supposed to know?" Bree retorts.

"I knew who you were the moment I met you!" McKayla cries, eyes flaring a bright electric blue as the shift spontaneously comes forward. "I just thought we weren't talking about it, a tacit agreement to leave the politics alone or something!"

"I can't believe you didn't know!" Peter chortles. Bree throws one of Jane's scary math textbooks at him and he cries foul with a breathless, " _Ouch!"_

"You'll heal," Bree snaps.

Ella debates on whether or not to get involved in this werewolf business - and then opts to make a pot of coffee instead. Anthony, for all that he is quiet and reserved, is good at talking to people in a way that she'll never hope to imitate. And its his pack, anyway. The most she'll do is make sure McKayla doesn't leave the loft until she's less likely to attack unwitting towns folk and technically she doesn't even need to _be_ here to do that. She can just go hang out in her workshop or visit Carlisle or fix the ley lines in the square or talk to Benji about how the _hell_ Seth managed to get ahold of dark magic texts online without Benji being aware of it. She should probably pop out to visit Black, too. Really, there's a thousand other things Ella can be doing beside babysitting baby werewolves.

Anthony rumbles out a low growl that quiets Bree and Peter. "Alright, listen," he says with authority. "Bree, you're coming with me to go talk to the mayor so we can explain what happened to his kid and then we're going to have a talk about _paying_ _attention_ to important shit. Peter, you stay and keep an eye on McKayla. And McKayla, just try to stay calm and acclimate to your new senses. The full moon is in a few days and you'll have better control then. Everybody got it?"

He waits for noises of acknowledgement before he grabs Bree by the scruff of her jacket and pushes her out the door; Anthony takes a second to give Ella a chaste kiss good-bye and rolls his eyes at Peter's parting, " _So long, Alpha my Alpha!"_ and then he's gone.

And Ella is left alone with coffee and two werewolves. What even is her _life_? Seriously.

As Ella waits for her coffee pot to finish percolating, she tries to decide what she's going to knock off of her ever-present list of shit that needs to get done. What's the most pressing? A few things tie for first in terms of importance and she _really_ shouldn't leave anything hanging for longer than necessary. Bad enough she grabbed a few hours of sleep and finished off the last of the triple pepper hummus. She doesn't have much more room for procrastination.

Peter is talking to McKayla about which scents to pay attention to and which to ignore - and _oh_ the irony, since Peter notoriously has the worst nose of all the werewolves she knows - as Ella fixes herself a mug of coffee, no sugar or cream.

"You can call me Mickie," the newly turned werewolf blurts all of the sudden, cutting off Peter's rambling explanation with an apologetic wince. "I- _sorry_ , it's just only my dad really calls me McKayla and since we're going to be spending a lot of time together…."

"No worries," says Peter reassuringly. "We're all about nicknames around here. Well, not me usually, but sometimes I'll answer to Pete or, if you're my mother, Peter Pie - although, please don't share that with anyone. And Bree, you know, is actually a Breanna, though I do favor Bumble Bree when she's being particularly obnoxious. Janie, down in the shop, is actually just Jane, but she's so damn sweet, you know? Then there's our illustrious Alpha, but, like, the only one brave enough to call him by his _actual_ first name - Edward, by the way - is probably his mother and I've only ever heard Ella call him Tony, so probably I wouldn't try that if I were you? And then, of course, there is Ella, our queen, and _her_ real name is Isobella - literally nobody uses that - but because I'm special, I get to call her El -"

Ella snorts, cradling her mug of coffee against her chest. "No, you're annoying as hell, so that's why you get away with it."

Peter presses his palm against his chest with a gasp. "So _rude!"_

McKayla - Mickie, _whatever_ \- seems a bit dazed in the wake of Peter's motormouth. She peers at Ella curiously. "And you are…some kind of magic?"

"The _best_ kind of magic," Peter claims proudly.

"Magician," Ella corrects.

"The _best_ kind of magic," Peter repeats, this time with a wide-eyed nod.

"Oh," says Mickie, a little confused. "Then why are you here? To help with the, uh, werewolf transition? For me?"

"This is my building," Ella says smoothly. "But also yes, generally to help keep you away from easy prey, like Peter."

"I resent that," Peter pouts.

"Oh," Mickie says again, faintly pink. "Sorry. I guess I should have known - your scent is, like, everywhere. I think."

Ella shrugs noncommittally, unoffended. She's only really half-paying attention to the conversation anyway, mostly just staying in the kitchen to finish her coffee. She's been asked worse questions - hell, she's _asked_ worse questions and more rudely, too.

"Doesn't it make you want to sneeze?" Peter asks in sotto voce, a wrinkle in his nose. "All that magic. It's bad for the sinuses, I tell you."

Mickie frowns at him. "You aren't sneezing."

"Well, not _now_."

Ella rolls her eyes and heaves a sigh just loud enough to draw the attention of the werewolves. "As riveting as all this is," she starts dryly, placing her empty cup on the counter. "I can't really stick around. I have to go see a warlock about a dumbass."

"Wait, Ella, I don't know if I-"

"Don't worry, _Pete_ ," she interrupts as she reaches for her jacket. "I'll be sure to ward you in so you can't get out."

Ella closes the door behind her and snaps her fingers to tighten the wards around the loft. As she does, she hears a muffled question from McKayla Newton. "Doesn't she care?"

Peter's response is swift are startlingly serious. "She cares more than anyone, but sometimes, it's better for her to just keep moving forward. So I'm here and I'm caring so that she doesn't have to. Kind of like the Doctor, you know?"

Ella's throat tighten for a moment and she swallows heavily, savoring the bitterness of coffee lingering in her mouth as she centers herself.

Peter's right - even with the Doctor Who reference.

She has to keep moving forward.

* * *

 **A/N: Anytime I can squeeze in a Whovian reference, I definitely do. And yes - McKayla "Mickie" Newton is, in fact, the genderbent version of Mike Newton from the genderbent Twilight. Because why the hell not?**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	188. part 13: 8: chasing down cyclones

**eight**

 **chasing down cyclones**

* * *

"So, you fucked up."

Benji has the grace to cringe at the flatness of her tone as she stands in his doorway. Ella looks around when he lets her into his apartment over the lone pizza joint in town, _Pizzarre_. She's never quite been able to pin his ethnicity between his dark, almond-shaped eyes, brushed-bronze skin, and hair the color of walnuts - but in his apartment, seeing the tapestries over his window and the pictures of pyramids on his wall, she pins him as Egyptian almost immediately. She has a fleeting wonder if Benji is related to Kebi's husband, Amun, and decides that based on the similarities in their clay-toned lifelines that they are probably brothers, considering the tendency for people to be _family_ in Charmstone.

Her gaze ghosts over an errant piece of mail. _Benjamin Gamal_. Same last name as her therapist. Is that a conflict of interest?

Does it even _matter_ at this point?

"I didn't know what Seth was up to," Benji defends, kind of lamely.

"Not the point," she tells him bluntly. "You fucked up because he did get up to something. You were his mentor. You should have known what was going on and clued me in when he started acting all squirrely. And you didn't."

Benji's fingers tighten around the brass knob of his door. "What's going to happen to Seth?"

Ella tilts her head, studying him intently. "You don't have to worry about Seth. He's been taken care of."

Benji blanches. "You…Did you…"

"Oh, my God," Ella groans. "He's not _dead_."

Honestly, why does everyone jump to that conclusion? Kill a hunter, a pedophile, a hag, a ghoul, an each uisge, a couple hundred pixies, and suddenly Ella might as well be Miss Murder, or something. It's not like they didn't _deserve_ it - or that Seth wouldn't have deserved it. She'd graciously let him keep his life in exchange for his magic, which she tells Benji with a bald, unforgiving sort of reality.

"I locked away his magic," Ella explains with a shrug.

Benji's expression twists, like he thinks this is somehow worse than death.

Thinking about how _complete_ she feels with her magic, Ella can kind of see where he's coming from.

But that isn't the point of showing up at Benji's door.

"You've probably noticed that, unlike the other representatives on the town council, I don't have a second, someone who can take my place should I be unavailable," she says conversationally. "It's occurred to me recently that I should probably change that. I'm going to be straight with you, Benji. I was thinking of asking you to do that job since you've pretty much done it before."

Benji tactfully doesn't point out that _he'd_ been the representative for the magic-users in town until she'd breezed through. Instead, he visibly tramps down on the hope blooming inside and says, "And now you're reconsidering."

Ella snorts. "Hardly."

Because who else is she going to ask? Warlocks are more rare than witches and Benji, now the only warlock in Charmstone, easily outstrips the power of the few hedge witches and other casual magic users in town - outside of herself and Alec, of course. And Black, but he's already the representative for the potentials in town.

Benji appears openly surprised.

Ella lifts her chin, piercing him with a narrow-eyed stare. "Don't mistake this for anything other than necessity," she says warningly. "I'm not choosing you as my second because you've earned it. You fucked up with Seth, understand? That could have been a total disaster and you're both lucky that nobody died for the sake of his goddamn curiosity. I'm giving you this second chance - this _last_ chance - because there are no other options."

"I understand," he says quietly.

"You won't like what happens if you fuck up again," she tells him bluntly.

Benji pales.

And Ella smiles inwardly, kind of proud that she is capable of inspiring that kind of wariness. It's the kind of effect she used to wish she had as a helpless kid and the kind of skill she mastered living on the street; now, it's a skill refined, a honed tool she can use at her leisure. And it's empowering as hell.

Ella wiggles her fingers in a teasing good-bye before she _pops_ away on the turn of her heel - and as the world shifts around her, she can distantly hear Benji's low, shocked gasp. The whole teleportation thing is a real show stopper. Let him bask in the awe of her magic and take to heart her warnings. It'll probably serve him better in the end.

She doesn't expect that Benji will be screwing up again any time soon.

But Benji isn't the only cyclone she's chasing down that day.

For the second time in as many days, Ella appears on the edge of Black's property, his cabin as serene and quiet as usual. She marches up to his front door, intent on knocking, and then swerves around to trail around to the back of the cabin when she hears a muffled voice crooning on a static radio, following the dark stretch of Black's lifeline to a shed-cum-makeshift art studio attached to the side of his home.

She's never really seen Professor Black's artwork, though his paintings are rumored to circulate around local art museums in Albany and other upstate New York cities. He has a hyper-realistic flare as he works with the smooth, slippery, pungent oils on a wide, narrow stretch of canvas; a woman in profile, cast in the shadow of autumnal trees. He doesn't seem to feel the chill in the air, but then again neither does Ella. Magic is convenient for staying warm, among other things.

She's not dumb enough to assume that Black hasn't already sensed her, but he doesn't seem in any hurry to acknowledge her, either. He is content to continue dragging his brush across the canvas as a woman's voice keens over the cry of a violin and the slow roll of drums. And Ella is content to fix her eyes on the way the sun casts Black's shape in shadow.

Just like the last time she saw him, his shadow isn't man-shaped. It's a bear, the same black bear that she'd seen before on the astral plane, but this time locked in a two-dimensional shape, flat to the ground and connected to Black by the feet.

"Cochise."

Ella blinks at Black's nonsensical greeting. Then, she hazards a guess. "Is that what you call the shadow?"

"It is," Black confirms. He doesn't turn away from the canvas as he continues languidly, apparently feeling verbose. "Cochise was an Apache Chief, a strategist who attempted to kept the peace between his people and the white settlers until the U.S. government turned hostile. Cochise is remembered for being undefeated in battle until his willful surrender. I always felt the name was appropriate for my familiar, an homage to the people of my mother, to the blood in my veins."

"Eating the shadow changed your familiar - took him out of your head and put him in the real world."

Black's paintbrush stutters. His shoulders lift with a deep breath and then he places the brush aside, turning to Ella with a wan expression. He appears somewhat disturbed. "The Apache have a traditional respect for bears, almost a sacred reverence for them. In my youth, I thought it fitting that my familiar would be a bear tied to the astral plane. It is, after all, an honor to direct a bear to the forest so that he might be protected. I have never wished otherwise."

"But you knew what would happen when you did that ritual," Ella states plainly.

Black's fathomless eyes glimmer, a faint pinch in his brow. "Yes."

"Why? If you knew what it would do to your familiar…"

"My mother's people believe in a dualistic nature, where the light and the dark play their roles. The Apache believe that progress and life can only be attained through the light. It has always seemed particularly…challenging that my father's people would believe the exact opposite." Black pauses, seeming to gather his words. "The people who share the blood of Mordred have a fascination with power and death and desolation, in the perversion of nature for self-gain. And when I was younger, I made a decision to be the son of my mother above all else. I have no regrets in making this sacrifice."

"So Alec was right. You are a descendent of Mordred."

"I am."

Ella's stomach churns. "All this time, knowing what I am, probably guessing what bloodline I belong to…" She shakes her head, molars clacking together as she pushes down the anger caused by the uncertainty shadowing her thoughts. "Why were you helping me?"

"I am the son of my mother," Black repeats steadily. "Long have I rejected my father and his people before him. That's why I live here, isolated and protected by these lands. That's why I guard the interests of the innocent and the potentials in this town. That's why I use my magic so sparingly, unwilling to partake in the trades that are necessary for the dark power that saturates my being. I have made my choices and none of them have brought harm to you or yours."

Ella's shoulders drop. "I know," she says, averting her eyes.

She's never had any reason to not trust Black. He hasn't fucked her over, not once; his advice, however annoying or cryptic, has always been spot-on; he saved her life when he didn't have to and he never asked for anything in return. And it's not like she's here to question his loyalty or take the temperature on how evil his shared blood with Mordred has made him. Alec hasn't gotten in her head about this - because Alec isn't like Ella, he doesn't see the side that she can see because of his upbringing with Solomon's teaching. Maybe he's blind to it, or something. Alec acts like he doesn't know what it's like to be judged for the color of his skin, let alone the type of magic in his blood.

But Ella does. She knows what that's like in horrible, visceral detail. And while she might revel in the fear she can inspire in people - especially when they deserve a wake-up call - she knows exactly what it's like to be _really_ despised and disowned and divorced from trust.

She isn't about to do that to someone who doesn't actually deserve it.

"Are you okay?" Her question comes out somewhat stalwart and she tries to gentle her approach. "Is Cochise…adjusting to the change okay?"

Black's mouth tilts into a molasses smile. "We will be fine."

She thinks he means that in more than one way.

* * *

 **A/N: All the info about the Apache regard for bears and the overview of Cochise is all, to my knowledge, completely correct. Also, _Cochise_ is a really awesome song by Audioslave, which is my all-time favorite band (most days) and I strongly recommend a listen along with a history lesson. Open your eyes a bit to the plights of the past, if you will. **

**Also, yay Ella, being all _multi-dimensional_. Go girl.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**

 **EDITED: For guest review, you were right and you didn't sound like a social justice anything. I am very much aware of the issue you pointed out and hopefully this edit rectified my mistake. I don't think that I originally conveyed Ella's thoughts on the issue in the way that I meant to. _Thank you_ and keep fighting the good fight.**


	189. part 13: 9: lucky charms

**nine**

 **lucky charms**

* * *

The scant remainder of December passes in a series of check-list days.

She resets the ley line convergence in the middle of town square, fingers buried into frozen soil, dirt clinging to the underside of her nails and a wild current of magic shivering through her as the land uses her as a cleansing conduit.

The following morning, she drags Benji to Seth's door and they ferret out every article of magic paraphernalia, research and materials and the dark web computer Seth used to find that awful ritual; Seth watches them with bitterness that Benji ignores and Ella notes with a keen-eyed glare.

She takes the computer to Jasper and he sets about "scrubbing" the device, whatever that means. Ella grimly instructs him to store any useful information he finds, just in case. Jasper offers her a blunt in response, which she refuses.

And then Friday rolls around and Ella sits through a town meeting with Anthony at her side and they spend two hours afterward debriefing the town council on the entire Seth debacle and what has been done about it. She is unapologetic about the way she has handled Seth and doesn't allow Mayor Newton any quarter when he begins blustering about McKayla Newton's spontaneous turn. "You'd rather have her alive, right?" Ella asks with a stark stare, feeling victory when Newton's passive comments wither.

Anthony doesn't bother masking his pride that she defends him - but of course she would, knowing how much of a headache the mayor has been since his daughter became a werewolf. Tony will always be the more diplomatic between the two of them and Ella is of the opinion that diplomacy will only get anyone so far. She doesn't mind playing the bad cop when necessary. It comes natural.

After all of that is settled and the dust settles after Seth's monumental fuck up - after everything is as cleaned up as it's ever going to be - the urge to rest is hard to ignore. The almost two months of _calm_ has spoiled her, she thinks. Somehow, she'd let herself be lulled into a sense of peace, becoming content to just run her store and _create_ with magic and lose herself in the arms of her lover. Being plucked out of that by a sudden calamity has brought back a terse stiffness to her spine and a restlessness in her sleep. It's hard not to feel like the other shoe is about to drop.

(The hunters. The Order of Mordred. _Unfinished_ _business_ slowly tracking closer and closer to home. She hates the waiting.)

The New Year comes early in the week and with it a Festival of Lights in Charmstone. Unlike other town events, this is one that is run entirely by Town Hall, which means that store owners aren't asked to run attractions and that Peter is not able to sign _The Magic Shop_ up for another booth. Which is good, because it means that Ella can stay inside away from the crowds and decompress.

Except Bree begs and pleads with Anthony to go to the festival with Mickie - and even though both she and Peter promise that they'll have Mickie well in hand, the fact remains that the first night of the full moon is the during the festival and being that it is Mickie's first full moon, she's too much of a safety hazard to go out only supervised by betas.

Ella can see the indecision on Anthony's face. She understands. This is one of those aspects of leadership that is harder to grasp because this isn't like issuing commands in a crisis; this is bonding and building relationships and, somehow, Anthony is worse than Ella in this regard. So she steps up beside her taciturn soulmate and says, "A half hour and then out to the forest before moonrise."

"One hour," Bree bargains as Peter bounces on his toes beside her and Mickie's eyes ping-pong between them all.

Ella raises a brow and parries, "Fifteen minutes."

Bree makes a face. "Ugh. Forty-five."

"Deal," says Anthony.

Peter and Bree exchange high-fives. Mickie twists a curl of hair around her finger. "We really don't have to," she says to Anthony with an unstable flicker of electric blue eyes. "I don't think it's such a good idea. I'm…I don't want to lose control…"

"You'll be fine," Anthony tells her and he lets his eyes flare bright alpha green for a moment, subtly reminding them all of the influence an alpha werewolf can have over betas, especially ones that he has bitten.

Mickie relaxes, just a bit.

"Babe, you worry too much," Bree admonishes with a careless shrug, draping herself over Mickie's shoulder. "Really, it's no big deal. I still think keeping you isolated until the full moon is stupid, but."

"Easy for you to say!" Peter exclaims loudly. "You're a born wolf, you've literally been doing this since you were a baby. Take it from me, Mickie Mouse, that born wolves have _no idea_ how hard it is to acclimate. Bree told me that fireworks on the 4th of July are easy to ignore and I spent that night feeling like my ears were bleeding. Don't listen to anything she says. Listen to me, your Werewolf Yoda."

"Don't listen to him," Bree counters immediately. "He's just a failwolf."

"You take that back!" Peter demands.

"Make me!" Bree challenges.

Bree and Peter look like they're about to launch at each other in the middle of Ella's living room - probably a byproduct of the full moon being so close and bringing out their aggression. Ella rolls her eyes and snaps her fingers, creating a magical divide between Peter and Bree with a scoff. "Play nice, children."

Anthony tilts his head at Mickie. "Worse comes to worst, you have one hell of a back-up plan."

Mickie turns wide-eyes to Ella with a soft noise of acknowledgement.

"I try not to let any maiming happen on my watch," Ella says, shooting for reassuring.

She must miss the mark by a bit because Anthony coughs in surprise and Peter bursts into uncontrolled chortles and Bree makes a squinty-eyed expression and Mickie seems to be genuinely trying to figure out if Ella is serious or not. Ella rolls her eyes at all of them, pinches Anthony's thigh, and wanders off to her workshop. She can't wait until the full moon passes. Still, even if she hadn't been sitting on this one, she would have volunteered herself to keep an eye on Mickie at the festival - not only so Anthony could rest easy, but because Ella considers all the townspeople _hers_ to protect and she isn't about to let Bree's half-baked planning put anyone in danger.

The Festival of Lights - predictably - involves a lot of lights to ring in the New Year. Oriental paper lanterns, twinkling white lights in barren tree branches, benches and bushes and light posts outfitted in a cornucopia of color while vendors pump out spiced cider and cake pops and live music for the long, rectangular man-made ice rink in font of Town Hall. There is a television rigged up that plays the CNN coverage for the Times Square gathering that Ella uses to keep track of the time as she and Anthony wander after the beta wolves, hand in hand with wry expressions as Bree and Peter bicker over how "real" a dog psychic can possibly be.

And then -

There is an abrupt noise, loud and sparking into the darkening sky, a noise that is immediately recognizable. A firework of some kind, set off too soon if the apologetic shouting behind the Town Hall is anything to judge by - and maybe it wouldn't have been a big deal, except that it startles Mickie.

Badly.

In the blink of an eye, Mickie is shifted with fangs and a growl ripping out of her throat, her claws shredding up the back of Bree's hand and the burst of adrenaline shunting Peter off to the side. Anthony darts forward, then skitters backward when Mickie swipes at him, out of control and ignoring the way the glow of his eyes demand that she stand down.

A feral newly bitten werewolf is nothing to scoff at in a crowd full of ignorant humans.

Ella's magic spins beneath her skin, a calm settling over her mind as she reacts. The step that brings her into Mickie's space also draws all of Mickie's attention to her, but Ella isn't frightened - and maybe she has shitty self-preservation instincts or maybe she doesn't flinch away because she knows there's scarier things in the world than Mickie's claws. All Ella knows is that she can _take_ a werewolf.

That unflappable sense of sure confidence spreads like a haze of fog through her magic and between one breath and the next, _time slows_.

She thinks maybe her _sense_ of time continues normally or maybe her brain processes information faster - but her sense of herself and her own body kind of… _elongates_. Ella has all the time in the world for as long as she can keep time stalled. But this is only the second, maybe the third, time that she's done this successfully and it's easy but it's also _hard_ and she knows, instinctually, that she can't keep it going for longer than a few moments.

A few moments is all she really needs, though.

The only way she's ever been able to teleport people with her is by touch and she can't figure a way around that right now, if ever. With the way they're all spaced out, if Ella wants to teleport them all at once, it's going to be both crafty and probably a little painful.

 _Time keep g._

Ella hooks her ankle around Anthony's and reaches to either side of Mickie for Bree and Peter's hands, which unfortunately puts her belly in the direct path of Mickie's claws. She can feel those sharp nails biting into her skin through her shirt as she pulls the magic around her and grimaces when the sudden lurch of the world around her - time _starting_ and the earth beneath their feet _changing_ force those claws _into_ her stomach.

When all five of them land in a random clearing in the middle, Anthony's growl is still reverberating around them even as they stumble. Jarred by the split-second relocation, Peter actually trips backward and Bree spins into a tree; for her part, Mickie's forward motion continues for several seconds, claws digging deeper into Ella as they crash together.

Fuck.

She knew it was going to happen, but it still _hurts_.

Ella sucks in a harsh gasp and then Mickie is being ripped away from her and then she is being cradled face-first into Anthony's chest as he snarls at all of his betas, who whimper in response.

"Shit, _Ella_." Anthony cups her cheek, tilting her chin up to catch her gaze, everything about him in that moment skewed more _wolf_ than _human_. There is blood between them, hot and rich with an iron scent, and his teeth pull away from his lips with another snarl.

"I'm fine," she manages through grit teeth. It hurts but she's probably had worse. In comparison to arrows running her through and an athame shoved into her _heart_ , this amounts to nothing more than a scratch, honestly.

"What did you do?" he demands, pressing his hand against the wound. He is visibly distressed by the sight of her blood and she can sense through their fledgling, incomplete bond that he is tottering between worry and boiling anger.

"Calculated risk," she rasps. Ella brushes his hand away and replaces it with her own, summoning the right kind of magic to mend herself up. There isn't much to be done about the bloodstains. "There," she sighs, lifting her shirt to show him unblemished flesh. "All better. It looked much worse than it was."

"It was a gut wound," he counters darkly.

"Which I sustained for less than a minute," she points out, sort of flippant.

He growls at her lowly, at a loss for words apparently reduced to just being _super_ irritated. He doesn't let her step away from him, though, so she just spins within the protective cage of his arms and looks at all the beta wolves. All three of them are cowering away from Anthony and his near-tangible rage, all signs of the shift absent except for the muted flare of their lupine eyes.

Mickie, in particular, looks _horrified_ once she catches sight of the blood staining Ella's shirt. "Oh, God," she says weakly, practically wilting as she drops down to her knees, staring at her bloodied hands in shock. "Oh, _God_."

Bree blanches. "Okay, maybe you were right to worry," she mutters.

"I'm _fine_ ," Ella repeats, more firmly this time. "In case anyone's forgotten, I'm kind of hard to kill."

Anthony's arms tighten around her, pulling her against his chest as he bares his teeth to Mickie and Bree. "That won't be happening again," he rumbles, a warning as much as a promise.

Ella appreciates the sentiment, but she can take care of herself.

Bree nods hastily; Mickie averts her gaze, guilty of instincts that are _new_ and mostly out of her control. Maybe it was dumb to go to the festival, but at the same time, _shit happens_. Hopefully someone - _Anthony -_ will remind her of that once the full moon is over.

"Where the hell are we?" Peter asks, then frowns. "Wait, how the we _get_ here is the better question. Like, I've done the ride-along teleportation gig with you, El, but this was _crazy_ fast. I didn't even see you move and suddenly we're _here_ and you're bleeding and…What the _fuck_ , man? Did you level up or something?"

"Or something," Ella hedges with as much of a shrug she can manage around Anthony's protective embrace. "I've finally mastered a time spell and it seems to be pretty useful."

Mickie and Bree gape at her nonchalance and Anthony tenses at her back.

And Peter, inexplicably, bursts out laughing.

They all stare at him with varied levels of disbelief as he _keeps_ laughing, clutching at his ribs and wiping mirthful tears from his eyes. When he finally calms, he's pink cheeked and grinning. "Sorry, sorry," he says, clearly insincere. "It's just that I realized Ella should be the new mascot for a certain General Mills cereal."

"What?"

Peter bites back a smile. "You know, because your magic is basically Lucky Charms."

Bree snorts. "Oh, my God, you're totally right."

Ella rolls her eyes.

The whole night is probably not an auspicious beginning to the new year.

* * *

 **A/N: Yes! Lucky Charms magic! I'm not even kidding, I _did_ base Ella's magical abilities off of a children's cereal. See below, the official meaning of the Lucky Charms cereal:**

 **Hearts** \- power to bring things to life/heal

 **Blue Moons** \- power of invisibility

 **Rainbows** \- instantaneous travel from place to place

 **Balloons** \- power to make things float

 **Hourglass** \- power to control time

 **The more you know! And I'm _almost_ sure that this was the last chapter of part 13, since the arc reached its goals, but I have no idea what the interludes are going to look like. I have a few ideas, though, and we're getting closer to the end.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	190. part 13: interlude

**interlude**

* * *

Mallory keeps his head down, eyes averted from the single point of brightness on the screen, a profile backlit and surrounded by darkness. He's only ever met the person he answers to once in person and he doesn't have any plans to do so again any time soon. To say the person on the other side of the encrypted connection scares him shitless is putting it mildly - and Mallory was in the goddamn Special Forces.

'Course, he'd seen _some shit_ out in the desert, the kind of shit that makes a man sit up and take notice. The kind of shit that turns a man into a mercenary because some things just _shouldn't_ be allowed to exist.

Not after what he'd seen. Hell no.

Still, he ain't ever been dumb enough to scare himself on purpose and so when he reports in, he keeps everything on the level. Respectful and all that because Mallory has no idea what kind of fancy voodoo The Overseer is actually capable of and he isn't about to put himself in the line of fire.

"Your progress is pleasing," intones The Overseer on the other side of the screen. "The collated power is almost ready for transfusion."

It isn't a statement that exactly requires a response, but Mallory had been in the Army. "Yes, Overseer."

Christ, but if it doesn't feel like a blow to his pride to answer to the same kind of unnatural goddamn monsters that he spends his days eliminating. Needs must, though.

"You linger," observes The Overseer. "Why? Your supply of the ash should be adequate. You are dismissed - unless you have other news you wish to share?"

Mallory hesitates.

"My time is precious," The Overseer snaps, a sharp reprimand that sends a prickle of warning down Mallory's spine.

He licks his lips and hastily says, "We got word about the beast today from a warlock Smith has been baiting."

The Overseer hums in interest, always curious to hear about the beast of a girl that Mallory's group has encountered twice now - a so-called magician, a monster hiding beneath a pretty face and a sharp tongue. The Overseer has _designs_ on the beast, Mallory thinks, and that's the only reason Mallory hasn't tried to really kill the beast.

Mallory turns his head and barks a few orders, telling Smith and Walters to bring the warlock into the cubby of a room where communications have been set up. The warlock is reedy and swarthy and pissed; Mallory hasn't bothered learning his name.

"This is the warlock?" The Overseer asks skeptically.

Mallory represses a snort and pushes the warlock in front of the screen. "This is him," he tells The Overseer. He digs his fingers into the warlock's shoulder, shaking him a bit. "Show The Overseer what the beast did to you, boy," he instructs harshly.

The warlock does, rolling a sleeve up to his elbow to show the shiny pink-red marks of a new scar, a bunch of symbols that mean nothing to Mallory but draw a sharp gasp from The Overseer. The warlock swallows shakily and stammers, "She t-took away my m-magic."

 _What a feckless, sniveling coward_ , Mallory thinks.

The Overseer's image shifts, the bright spot taking up more space on the screen, just close enough that Mallory can pick out the stretch of a hungry smile. "I haven't seen something like this in nearly twenty years," The Overseer breathes, somehow walking the line between nostalgic and awed.

"Undo it!" yells the warlock. "Please, undo it! I can't live without my magic!"

The Overseer ignores him and says, "Get rid of him."

Mallory grunts. "Kill him?"

"No. Take him around to the nearest Order member, wipe his memory, and send him home. We might have need of him yet."

Smith and Walters drag the warlock out of the room and close the door behind them, silencing the warlock's loud protests with a perfectly aimed elbow to the back of the head. Mallory turns back to the screen, falling into an easy parade rest. "Instructions, Overseer?"

"Our beast seems to be ready for a personal visit, wouldn't you agree, Sergeant Mallory?"

Mallory's mind casts back to all the baits that have been set for the beast over the past year or so - a rally of redcaps, a tip-off to that old hag, a placement of a Scottish waterhorse, Mallory's own visit, a hive of pixies, the Overseer's imp, and now a warlock who was so easily manipulated into ripping open a shadow dimension…

That magician beast had somehow survived _all_ of that, but Mallory will never forget that the bitch killed Captain Stanley.

A nasty grin stretches across his face and, forgetting his wariness of The Overseer, Mallory looks up and says, "I think that can be arranged."

Finally, the beast will get what's coming for her - and then Mallory can burn all the abominations living in Charmstone, once and for all.

* * *

 **A/N: _If it wasn't clear_ , The Overseer is basically the head honcho of The Order of Mordred and orchestrates the hunters, who in turn have been involved in _sending all that shit_ Ella's way this entire time. How major is that?**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	191. part 13: interlude interlude

**interlude**

* * *

Alec opens the door of the hotel room that has become his refuge and is only marginally surprised to see Ella on the other side, patiently waiting to walk through the sort of niceties she generally disregards. Mostly, he's surprised that she hadn't just appeared in his room, as she has before.

 _She looks like she wants to talk_ , Akira observes, shifting restlessly on Alec's skin. His familiar's wariness of Ella has increased with the knowledge that the other magician has managed to acquire some control over time. Understandable, considering that to Alec's knowledge, such a thing hasn't _actually_ been accomplished. There have been spells and potions written down, of course, but the likelihood that they would ever work is, at best _, slim_. Those kind of spells would require a massive amount of power that most magic-users wouldn't have the kind of access to. A motivated magician, on the other hand, is quite another story.

Clearly. He'd _felt_ it himself, after all.

Is it worrisome that Ella felt the need to dabble with - and master - time magic? Perhaps.

"Hey, Uncle Alec," Ella greets in a tone bordering on sardonic. "Mind if I come in?"

Wordlessly, watchfully, Alec steps back to allow her entrance. He cannot help but to be leery of her, as well, not after witnessing what Ella is capable of - carving sigils into the body of another with all the alacrity of a stone. He would have assumed that Ella would not do to others what had been clearly done to her - and yet, she had drawn blood and locked away that warlock's magic and acted as if it were nothing.

It's a scene that has kept him up at night - wondering.

What exactly had happened to Ella to make her so… _herself_?

Part of him hopes to never know.

"Are we going to have a problem?"

Alec startles at the demand of her voice, hastening to close the door and turn around to face his unexpected guest. Ella is holding herself with a sort of rigid awareness, a flinty quality in her watercolor-grey eyes, a challenging set to her chin. The magician's glass bracelets woven around her wrists are clear, placid and calm - but he is not lulled into a sense of complacency by that.

Not for the first time, Alec remembers that Ella is _powerful_.

Alec stands straight, resisting the urge to fold his hands behind his back. "What sort of problem are you referring to?"

"I'm not blind," she tells him with a careless shrug. "You've been keeping your distance. I saw the way you reacted on Christmas. I see the way you're acting _now_ , like I'm some sort of time bomb."

"Aren't you?" The words slip out before he can stop them and his fingers spasm as her expression closes off, colder than before. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that," he hurries to say. "I know better, it's just-"

"You're probably right," she cuts in, a steely thread in her voice.

"Ella, no," he disagrees, stepping toward her. "I am just…I had not expected…"

She lets out a humorless huff. "Yeah? Me neither. But I did what had to be done. I'm always doing what had to be done and that _taints_ me. I know it does. I can feel it, always trying to find some kind of balance, and one day it probably won't be enough. I'll just go _boom_."

Alec frowns deeply at her, a sense of protectiveness welling deep in his chest, similar but different to how he feels for Jane. "You don't have to always be on the frontline, Ella."

She snorts derisively. "I don't? I should do what you do? Stay back and use non-lethal measures?" she challenges.

"Magic is a gift that should not be abused for any purpose," Alec retorts immediately. It is a phrase he has heard all his life and one he does not disagree with. Magic is not for profit; it is not for violence or harm; it is not for entertainment. Magical life should be protected, but not at the cost of tainting one's own soul. "Magic shouldn't be used to interfere with the natural discourse of-"

"Solomon tell you that?"

"Lao Tzu, actually. _Non-anticipation is noninterference and allows the most perfect reflection of creation_."

"Bullshit."

"Merlin made the mistake long ago to interfere with the natural progression of nature," Alec counters, voice rising steadily. "He created shapeshifters. He made crops bloom. He mingled with the fae and taught magic to Morgan le Fey. And then Merlin made the greatest mistake of using magic to preserve a life that should have been lost - he saved a druid child and Mordred grew into the greatest evil the world has ever known! Merlin and Morgan then had to strike Mordred down and -"

"Exactly!" Ella shouts and the room shivers under the outburst of her magic, which she quickly reigns in. She takes a deep breath and says, " _Exactly._ Even Merlin knew that sometimes you just have to bite the bullet."

"Merlin was _wrong_ ," Alec says heatedly. "And all of his descendants have spent their lives making up for it. There are _morals_ to consider and ethics that must be observed."

"Merlin and Morgan and Mordred have been dead for _thousands_ of years, Alec! Don't you think it's time to move on and adapt a different philosophy? They were the first and whatever happened with them doesn't matter anymore. You can't fix the mistakes that a ghost made."

 _She has a point_ , Akira reluctantly admits, stirring against Alec's skin.

"There are always other options to consider," Alec lectures. "We don't have to be the monsters that our ancestors were. We don't have to kill or maim or interfere just to-"

"You don't get it!" Ella throws her hands up in exasperation. "This isn't about morals or being ethical or choosing right or wrong. It isn't a black and white issue. It never is. This is about _surviving_. Maybe I grew up with a better understanding of reality than you, but it's always been this way, except that before I was only protecting myself. Now, it's different. I have a duty to this town, to this world, and I will do _whatever_ is necessary. Get it? Nothing else is good enough. Nothing else will protect everyone."

Alec stares, struck silent by her iron conviction. He's realized, of course, that Ella has made some kind of commitment, but he hadn't known until that very moment how unshakeable that commitment is, how unsated she would prove to be by the same rigid ideals he'd been raised with. Six months hiding in this town and only now does Alec realize that he has barely brushed the surface of his last living relative.

What has Jane said about Ella? _She's an iceberg - nobody will ever see all the way below her waters._

"Take no prisoners and leave no enemies," Ella states with a steady stare. "Not even the chance of one. Everyone and everything else is collateral damage."

"We are at an impasse, then," he says, disturbed by this mentality she is expressing.

Ella arches a brow, arms crossing over her chest - not defensively, but in silent challenge. "Didn't think we would come to any kind of solution, honestly. I just wanted to make sure we wouldn't have a problem in the future."

"We don't," Alec assures.

"Good," she says with a single nod. And then Ella disappears with a muted _pop_ in the blink of an eye, an easy display of power that she seems to think is nothing particularly special.

Alec is almost certain she doesn't fully comprehend just how extraordinary - and frightening - the breadth of her magic is, even for a magician.

Now, though, they have an _understanding_ \- albeit a silent, tacit one. And though Alec partially understands where Ella is coming from, he will never again underestimate the lengths to which she is willing to go. He silently vows to hold his tongue and curb his objections. Perhaps, with time, he can persuade her to try other non-violent avenues first.

 _Maybe you should brush up on banishment rituals_ , Akira suggests.

Maybe.

* * *

 **A/N: Hopefully we can all understand where Alec and Ella stand now. Has anyone taken an ethical alignment test before? I have and they are _fascinating_. Deontological arguments are a huge point in this story. **

**There _might_ be another interlude for this arc. Trying to decide what I want to tie up and what I want to leave as a loose end. Stay tuned.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	192. part 13: interlude interlude interlude

**interlude**

* * *

Steam is rising up all around them, thick with the scent of her mild Tahitian mango body wash, punctuated by the pitter-patter of water hitting white tiles. Ella is on the tips of her toes, nails scraping against his scalp as she washes his hair for him, his hand steadying her balance, flirting with the curve of her bottom. Anthony can't look away from the intent expression on her face. Doesn't want to.

It's a peaceful moment, one that seems to be so rare for them, one where they can just _be_ together without the rest of their reality pressing against them. Ella has insisted on washing him, which he doesn't mind at all. By the end of this shower, he will be saturated in her scent and he will wear it like a badge of honor when he goes to train his betas to prepare them for whatever is coming next. He will not tolerate a repeat of the last full moon.

"Tilt your head back," Ella instructs softly.

Anthony complies, a low sound rolling in his chest at the feel of her fingers pushing hot water through his hair. She rocks up on her toes, breasts pressed firmly against his chest, her belly teasing the hardness of his cock, which had begun to fill the moment she had pulled him into the loft's bathroom for this sensual experience. He can scent her arousal mixing with his own, but there isn't anything urgent about it; there isn't any rush or demand or expectation. Just him holding her tightly as she twists every last sud of shampoo from his hair, playing at the nape of his neck with a languid smile.

His palms press against the swell of her hips, which have begun to mature into a rounder shape as she nears closer to nineteen. He follows the familiar valley of her waist, feeling the delicate bones of her ribs just beneath wiry muscles. She's lost weight again. Anthony knows that most people's weight fluctuates by about five pounds each day; as a werewolf, he has to be mindful of his own caloric intake to keep up with the demands of frequent shifting and healing for that same reason. For Ella, the slope seems to be slipperier. She's been a wisp of a thing the entire time he's known her, vertically challenged with deceptively fragile bones and a slimness to her figure that he's always thought of as _natural_. Except that he's starting to think it isn't. Her magic is always purring just beneath the surface of her skin and it _burns_ through her, eating up all her body fat to fuel itself; he doesn't know if she realizes it, but he can always detect the change after a trying ordeal. Maybe it would be less concerning if Ella didn't seem to think that coffee was an adequate replacement for an actual meal. Thank God for Jane, who seems determined to keep feeding Ella on a set schedule and is _successful_ , otherwise he might have to start really worrying. Or worrying more, as it is.

They both have their fears, he knows. Ella is afraid he'll grow tired of her and leave for better, less messier prospects. Anthony is afraid her magic will just burn her up one day and he will be left alone again. He thinks his fear is more realistic.

"I like this," she murmurs, peppering his collarbone with a series of long, gentle kisses. "We should shower together more often."

He winds his arms around her back, turning so she is under the water instead, and ducks his head near to hers. "I know," he says tenderly.

Her lips turn up in a smile, which she hides into his neck.

He _knows_ Ella. He knows what she really means. She says _I like this_ and it means _I love you_. It doesn't matter if she doesn't say the words often - for a creature made of more courage than sense, saying _I love you_ is hard for her, a true challenge to force past her lips. He thinks that part of her doesn't trust in words, which is why she shows him with actions. She comes to him, trusts him with herself. She always reaches for him first. Her touch is always tender, gentler than he needs, and never careless. She sometimes spends hours sketching him while he studies, tucking the drawings away somewhere safe like they are treasures. She takes his thoughts into consideration, does her best to compromise, does stupid things to try to protect him because she values his life more than her own. And sometimes his heart twists and aches with how low she prioritizes her personal safety - how she seems to think that she doesn't _matter_ \- and a righteous anger begins to burn in him, along with the urge to hunt down everyone who _made_ her think that because it's wrong, it's _so_ wrong because she's the best thing, the most important thing in the world.

He makes peace with it, though, because he has to; because it's an honor that she gives him every precious piece of her heart; because she shows him in all the ways she knows; because she's learning that they can love each other more and that loving each other more isn't weakness.

He makes peace with it because he's a werewolf and he doesn't _need_ words to know how much she loves him - he has his eyes and his nose and the sense of her heart tethered to his own, her emotions spilling over to him in quiet moments like this.

"The next full moon."

Anthony is roused from his thoughts. "Hmm?"

Ella leans back just enough to meet his quizzical look with a quirk of her brow, a sly smile playing on her lips. "The next full moon," she repeats, dragging her thumb down to the point where his neck and shoulder meet as she stretches her own neck to the side, showing off the same vulnerable curve. Her dark hair is slicked back from the water and her bronzed skin is flushed with pink and there is a distinct glint in the flashing silver of her eyes that leaves no mistake as to what she's talking about.

His mouth goes dry, pulse jumping. "Are you sure?"

Her smile softens into the smile that is reserved solely for him. "I'm already yours," she says.

Quite beyond his control, he feels the shift shiver across his skin for a few long moments. He is overwhelmed and excited and he cannot help but lave at the curve of her neck, already imagining what his mark will look like there - his claim preserved in a scar that she will bear forever so that everyone can see and _know_.

He doesn't know whether that pleases the man or the wolf more.

God, but he loves her - can't imagine a life without her. Legs tangled with his and cold toes seeking warmth against his skin as they sleep. The way she looks when she wakes up from a night of restful slumber, sleep-flushed, hair a wild tumble brushing against the tops of her shoulders. The way she pushes and shoves her way through a crisis but has no idea how to hold a polite conversation with strangers. The way she goes after what she wants and demands the world listen to her. Her secret, soft side that she reserves for him; her protective, fierce, scrappy fighting; her savvy street smarts.

She's been worth all the wait and more. And now she's consenting to be _his_ in the way of his creature - not just the girl he loves who loves him, not just his soulmate, but his _mate_.

"Next full moon," he agrees, a promise whispered into damp skin.

He can't wait.

* * *

 **A/N: This one came to me in a dream. Not even kidding. Lately, my dreams have been _ridiculously_ vivid - I mean, full color and intricately detailed and I'm waking up like, "Okay, I _have_ to write this down before I forget that I was just kidnapped by a space pirate, sold to some alien queen's ship as a slave, impressed her so much with my moxie and my opinions on slavery that she wanted me to marry her son, only I escape and in escaping I end up impressing him so now he's followed me to Earth and is trying to blend in as a human only he's really bad at it and now I'm falling for all his awkward". I'm pretty sure it's my anti-depressant that has me waking up _remembering_ my dreams because, honestly, I've never considered myself someone who dreamed a lot or at all or at least I didn't remember them? But now it's _very different oh my God_. **

**Anyway. People show their love in lots of different ways. Some people are disgustingly overt about it - PDA - and some people are all 80's rom-com about it - boomboxes and lawnmowers and diamond earrings - but _other_ people are quiet and subtle and intense and private. And I've always maintained that the Anthella ship is one that is particularly intimate, considering he's so stoic and she's so...Ella. They aren't loud, obvious people and with all the stuff going on in Charmstone usually...Well, they don't get a lot of "moments". Which is okay because, like, their romance - while certainly a part of the story - isn't the _point_ of the story. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	193. part 14: 1: bury the guilt

**PART FOURTEEN**

* * *

 **one**

 **bury the guilt**

* * *

If there is ever a chore Ella loathes, it is grocery shopping. There are two stores in town, a larger chain store near the highway away from the town proper and Corner Coven, a corner market on the other side of town square run by Stefan's parents, a pair of elderly ghouls who regularly pinch cheeks and coo at children in Romanian. It isn't so much that Ella minds the ghouls - though she _could_ do without withstanding Mrs. Rosu's heavy-handed hints about _maintaining marriageable prospects_ \- as she minds shopping in general. Even food shopping is kind of a headache, regardless of Jane's neatly-penned list.

However, it _was_ Ella's turn to re-stock their cupboards with peanut butter and Pop-tarts, so she trudges out to the little market during her break from the store, wistfully remembering a time where Jane was always _available_ instead of attending classes half the day. She's in the middle of internally grumbling about paper bags and nosy old women when the first faint prickle of recognition makes itself known.

The paper bag in her arms crinkles as she comes to a dead stop in the middle of the sidewalk. There, standing right in front of _The Magic Shop_ with a baleful sort of look, is someone who she has been studiously avoiding ever since she came back to the present, an act of self-preservation out of sheer guilt alone.

Ben is taller than he used to be. Naturally. He's - what - fifteen now? Or almost sixteen? He has the same kind of coltishness to his gangly limbs that many teenaged boys do, like he's made more out of arms and legs than sense. He's certainly taller than Riley, almost as tall as Anthony already, and possesses features which generally run a few shades darker.

And he's staring at her with a brooding sort of look that instantly reminds her of Tony when he's contemplating _things_. Clearly, Ben is still taking his cues from his favorite eldest cousin. Good. She and Anthony talked about it a little bit - everything that went wrong and right in 2015 - and she's always been quietly relieved that Ben eventually forgave Anthony.

She pointedly does not think about _why_ she is relieved.

Some things are best better left unexamined.

"Store looks less detrimental to continued survival than the last one," he comments after a long moment of silent, awkward staring. Mostly awkward for Ella since she doesn't know what to say or even if there's anything to say.

Of all the people she has ever let down in her life, it is Ben Masen who she has failed the most. She might not be the reason his family is dead, because that fault is firmly assigned to the hunters who started that terrible fire, but that doesn't mean she blames herself any less. Even now, with her time all jumbled up and those events feeling so _recent_ , she wakes up to the roar of flames and the sound of screaming in her ears.

She'll have to live with it for the rest of her life, she knows. If only she had been _more_. If only, if only.

Seeing Ben so suddenly has stolen her equilibrium. She does her best to get it back, hefting the slipping paper bag higher on her hip and continuing toward the store. "What a rousing endorsement," she says dryly, eyeing Ben a bit pensively. "You should submit that rave to _The Charmstone Chronicle_. I could use the publicity."

"I'll think about it," Ben says.

And then he's _following_ her into the store and Ella just kind of lets it happen, because she doesn't know what to do in this situation. If there _is_ a perfect way to handle a fifteen-year-old werewolf whose entire family was burned alive by hunters and who she failed to save, then she's completely ignorant of it.

Maybe Bree can find a book for her, or something, since she does have a hilariously atrocious gift for giving the worst presents. Just last week on Anthony's birthday, he'd received a copy of _Leadership for Dummies_. Is there even a book appropriate for this situation? Probably not.

Ella places the groceries on the glass countertop, watching Ben look around the shop out of the corner of her eye. He has a backpack hiked onto one shoulder, a plaid shirt tied around his waist, and a skateboard tucked beneath his arm. "Shouldn't you be in school?" she asks, abruptly remembering that it's not even noon yet.

"Lunch break," he explains with a shrug. Ben hooks his finger beneath one of the modified whistles she keeps in stock, one of the ones that flashes bright lights alongside piercing ear drums, which is explained on the little wooden plaque set by the display and is one of Peter's more brilliant ideas so that Ella doesn't have to keep explaining her products. "Useful," Ben says about the whistle. "Must be hell on the ears, though."

"Kind of the point."

"Right, right."

Ella crosses her arms, frowning. "Is there any particular reason you're spending your lunch break here?"

Ben looks up, the dark brown of his eyes sharp and intelligent. "Obviously I wanted to see you."

She's certain she must look _very_ doubtful about that, because whatever expression is on her face prompts a long sigh from Ben.

"Really," he swears. "I just wanted to see you. I mean, I know you've been back for a while and it didn't seem like you would be seeking me out, so I figured I'd be the mature one. Though I didn't peg you for the type to hide, but whatever."

"You _wanted_ to see me?" Ella checks.

Ben nods.

She shifts, leaning back against the counter. "To yell at me, or something? Because you'd probably have to get in line. I'm always pissing someone off."

Ben scoffs. "I'm not twelve anymore and I'm not dumb. It's been three years," he tells her with a sad sort of acceptance. "I'm never going to be over it, you know, but I'm not going to waste my life blaming someone who doesn't deserve it."

Ella is at a loss - at once skeptical and speechless. This sounds like Ben is _forgiving_ her for her failure, which is something she hasn't even forgiven herself for and she doubts she ever will. And here Ben Masen is, trying to bury the hatchet.

Or rather, bury the guilt.

He places the whistle back on the display, ducking his head a bit. "Aunt Elisabeth says forgiveness isn't about the other person, it's about yourself."

"Sounds wise."

"I think she stole it from a Hallmark movie," he confides with the same sardonic tone Riley has long mastered.

Ella bites the inside of her lip. "I did try," she says, averting her gaze.

"I know," Ben returns with a nod. "I mean, I've heard all about your exploits of badassery around town, so I don't doubt that you did your best. And Anthony, back when it happened and you were gone, he kept telling me about it, answering my questions. So, I know and it sucks, but…"

Tears burn at the back of her eyes, which she hastily blinks away.

A quiet _beep_ fills the air and Ben looks down at his watch, frowning. "And that's the end of lunch," he mutters. Ben glances up at her. "I've got to go."

"Did you eat?" she hears herself asking.

Ben pauses on the way out the door. "Uh, what?"

"Did you eat lunch? Are you hungry?" Ella doesn't wait for him to answer, quickly digging through the paper bag and lobbing an apple in Ben's direction, along with one of the chocolate candy bars that are supposed to be hidden in the freezer for emergencies.

Ben catches the food with a bemused smile. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it, kid."

Ben's smile widens into a genuine grin. "I won't so long as _you_ don't tell Anthony I made you cry. Later, Bella!"

Ben disappears down the street on his skateboard, biting into an apple, and Ella is left alone in her store, trying to wrap her mind around the last ten minutes with a bit of difficulty.

Her chest feels a smidge lighter.

* * *

 **A/N: Welcome to part 14! I have hopefully a few plot twists that will make you go DID THAT JUST HAPPEN? Stay tuned, guys and gals, and keep all hands and feet within the vehicle at all times. Or something.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	194. part 14: 2: snowballing

**two**

 **snowballing**

* * *

"Just try it, El!"

"No."

"Come on," Peter whines, holding out his confectionery offering as he toddles after her around the shop. "Just one bite. You don't even have to eat the whole thing."

"For the last time, _no_ ," she tells him, resolutely turning away.

There is laughter from the other side of the shop where Jane, Bree, and Mickie are watching the show along with another unexpected guest who Ella blames for this _entire_ ridiculous debacle. If Ben hadn't have stopped by the shop after school with the damn Hostess desert in the first place, Ella wouldn't currently be avoiding Peter's insistence that she try one. Also, she shouldn't have ever expressed that she'd never had a Sno Ball, because that only prompted Peter to proclaim that _you haven't lived until you've had one, Ella!_

Which she seriously doubts, all things considered.

"I don't get it!" Peter says in exasperation. He looks at the treat in his hand covered by a protective layer of plastic and then back up to Ella. "I really don't understand. I've literally seen you eat all the components of this before. Chocolate cake and marshmallows and a coconut macaroon. Why not this?"

She looks at him with bemusement. "Why are you paying that much attention to the things I eat?"

"Because it's my sworn duty as your best friend to know everything about you."

"That's creepy."

"It is not! It's _thoughtful_."

Ella raises both brows and says, "No, I'm pretty sure it's just creepy."

Ben snorts and Bree bursts out laughing at Peter's crestfallen expression. But if anything, that only inspires Peter more, because he thrusts the Sno Balls beneath Ella's nose and repeats his demand. "Just try it! One bite! What will it hurt?"

"You," Ella tells him flatly. "It's going to hurt you because _I'm_ going to hurt you if you don't knock it off."

"I'm trying to do you a favor! You can't go eighteen years without tasting something like this, Ella. It's just not American!"

Ella rolls her eyes. "I was born in Persia, my mother was Brazilian, and my father was Norwegian. Your argument is invalid."

Peter gapes at her for a moment. "I can't believe you won't even take a single _bite_."

She wrinkles her nose at him. "It's _pink_."

"Yeah, but doesn't taste pink!" he argues. "And what do you have against pink, anyway?"

"Actually," Ben pipes up. "It does kind of taste pink - or at least, I can taste some of the food dye."

"Lies!" Peter cries.

"He's not wrong," Bree says, struggling to hold in her smile. "I mean, it's not strong enough for a human to taste it, but food dyes do have a certain flavor to them, a chemical thing that we can taste."

"I can't taste anything," Peter huffs.

And with that, Peter is suitably distracted from trying to cram empty calories down Ella's throat like some particularly rabid foodie. The werewolves launch into a discussion about the merits of different the enhanced senses are for bitten and born wolves. Each wolf tends to have one sense that they are more attuned to - save for alphas, of course - but the fact that both Ben and Bree can taste artificial dyes while Peter and Mickie can't _does_ carry some weight as to whose senses are superior.

Still, Ella tunes them out and goes back to taking inventory. The tea blends she started stocking in December actually seem to be doing well and she makes a mental note to thank Carlisle for advising her on herbal combinations that would be safe for non-creatures and creatures to consume. It had been a bit of a gamble in adding tea blends to the store's product line, mostly because Ella is about the furthest from an adept potioneer as anyone could be, _but_ creating combinations of tea meant for basic health remedies was easier than she thought it would be. Kind of like the patches she'd crafted for the same purpose, but for a more mild effect. She's pleased with the sales, in any case, and moves to scratch down which tea blends are selling the quickest when the door to the shop bangs open.

Alertness bubbles forth, a slashing shiver of magic skating right up her spine as she spins to face the door, previous contemplations forgotten, the idle conversation with the wolves silenced.

It's Alice.

Alertness gives way to dread, because she's seen the expression before - several times in fact.

 _Fuck_.

"What is it?" Ella asks sharply, hurrying to meet Alice at the door. She catches Alice's hand and her elbow, guiding her further inside the store carefully because Alice doesn't seem to be _all there_ at the moment. Her eyes have a sort of faraway glazed look to them, the whites showing, and her skin is clammy. "What did you hear?"

Alice turns her face in Ella's direction and says hollowly, "She…"

She?

 _She's coming_ , said the imp. Is Alice talking about the same she?

Ella firms her jaw. "What did you _hear_ , Alice?" she asks again.

Alice's mouth works soundlessly for a moment and then comes a feathery recitation

 _He loves her, he loves her not_

 _She loves him, she loves him not_

 _He loved her, she loved him_

"What's going on?" Ella hears Mickie ask.

Bree and Peter hush her; Ben and Jane are silent, both watching as Ella shakes Alice's arm a bit. By now, this kind of thing is common enough that it's almost old hat and while part of Ella is certainly cringing away from the possibility of another crisis, the majority of her focus is on squeezing as much pertinent information out of Alice as possible. She doesn't know a whole lot about banshees in general, but she does know Alice well enough to deduce that Alice is _in the middle_ of getting a message from the Whispers.

And if Alice's feet led her to Ella while the Whispers were talking - well, then that seems more than a little significant.

"Is that all? Did you hear anything else?" Ella prompts seriously, squeezing Alice's hand.

Alice's gimlet eyes roll back a bit and then a second verse of some shitty rhyme tumbles out of her mouth.

 _She didn't know, she had to try_

 _He didn't care, he made her cry_

 _She loved him, he loved her not_

"Anything else, Alice?" Ella asks.

Alice repeats both verses, blinking rapidly as she appears to come back to herself, shaking her head back and forth a bit as if to clear her mind. "Ella?" she wonders with a frown, looking around the store in confusion. She blanches and says, "Oh. What….What did I say?"

"Nothing good," Ella says grimly.

Nothing good at all.

* * *

 **A/N: Say hello to _clues!_ Also, Sno Balls are pretty weird. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	195. part 14: 3: jon snow

**three**

 **jon snow**

* * *

As nice as it is to have a heads up that _something_ is coming down the pike, they still have no idea what they're actually dealing with. Who is _she_ and who is _he_ \- and what the _fuck_ happened with him and her that is so significant the Whispers felt it necessary to make a banshee into a messenger? Whatever it is, Ella has a sinking feeling that it's going to be a big sort of deal.

Alice is lightheaded once she comes back to herself and Jane is quick to become a mother hen, ushering Alice upstairs to lay down and drink water and have a piece of chocolate to level out her blood sugar. Ella watches them go, her spine stiffening as her mind _whirls_ , and then she shoots Bree a significant look. Soon enough, Ben is escorted home by Bree and Mickie, but despite his protests, Ben is _fifteen_ \- he shouldn't have heard what Alice said in the first place, so there's no way any of them are letting him be involved any further. He'll have to live with it.

When they're gone and it's just Ella and Peter in the shop, Peter slides behind the counter, making himself comfortable as his hand finds his phone. "I'll update The Goodfellows," he tells her as he calls up the app. He pauses, raises keen eyes to study the way she's holding herself, and then bites his lip. "Maybe you should, uh, go get some air? I'll keep an eye on the shop."

Magic tightly leashed, Ella doesn't hesitate to _pop_ away to the Charmstone forest. Under the torrent of her frustration and the stab of fear low in her belly that happens each time Alice _hears_ things, her magic creates a new clearing in the forest, trees leveled and the ground overturned. It's cathartic, this kind of destruction, and it helps focus her mind. She's a _leader_ ; she has to know what to do _next_ when they know _nothing_ and that's _hard_. She's good at being a blunt instrument; she's not so good at being the one that everyone looks to for a plan when she only has the vaguest idea of what the enemy is.

And Alice's prediction via the Whispers is the very definition of vague.

What if it isn't about strangers? What if the prediction is about _Ella_ and _Anthony_ \- or any of the other couples in their group? What if the threat is something from inside?

But no - no, it can't be that. She denies this possibility, chest heaving in the cold brush of January, standing in a charred circle of her own making.

Whatever the prediction is, she knows it can't be about herself and her wolf. They are untouchable, immutable, and _strong_. And Tony would _never_ betray her the way the Whispers indicated some elusive _she_ was betrayed by an equally elusive _he_. Because that's what the prediction was about, right? A woman being betrayed.

With that realization comes both clarity and a sense of calm. Ella catches her breath, peers at the destruction her magic has wrought, and kneels on the destroyed ground. She closes her eyes, palms pressed against chilled, broken dirt, and feels for the magic that is ambient in every inch of Charmstone's wood - drawing that magic out, pressing it forward, cleansing what she has dirtied.

Ella is neutral magic. She might have a penchant - and a habit - for destruction, but she can _create_ , too. And so she does her best to restore the clearing, righting the trees and coaxing the roots. The forest will still bare the scars of her anger, of course, but only in the fading gouges on tree bark and the errant collection of branches littering the healed ground. Nothing that the forest cannot heal completely from.

Ella breathes deeply for several moments and then _pops_ back to the shop.

Peter is still on the phone, tapping away at the screen, so she hasn't been gone very long even though her temper tantrum felt like eons rather than the fifteen minutes that it actually was. He barely glances up at her arrival, nose twitching as he registers the abrupt return of her scent to the shop. "Oh, hey, Jon Snow. Feel better? Got it all out of your system?"

Ella stares at him, a furrow in her brow. "Jon Snow?"

His shoulder lifts. "You know, because we have a Jon Snow level of ignorance in the situation and you're just angsty enough to pass for a bastard child of Winterfell dismissed to the Wall and…and I've completely lost you," Peter mutters, rolling his eyes. "Whatever, the _point_ is the reference is supremely applicable, okay? Because we know nothing about what the messages from the Great Beyond are even about, So. _You know nothing, Jon Snow_. You know?"

She levels a _look_ at him.

Peter sighs. "I updated the chat with Alice's spooky speech, so everyone that needs to know will know. Just…" Peter frowns, tilting his head to the side. "I mean, is this like a _real_ situation or what? Maybe this isn't about some Big Bad, right?"

Ella shakes her head, crushing that hope of his before it can fully bloom. "When have Alice's predictions ever been about some mundane issue?"

"True. Plus, it isn't like the typical banshee modus operandi to randomly spout riddled predictions. Usually they just scream."

Not for the first time, Ella recognizes that Alice is a bit _special_ so far as the average banshee is concerned. If anything, Alice is atypical for a banshee. She wonders if it has anything to do with the druidic blood running through her veins, if somehow the combination of a banshee and a druid for parents has made Alice more sensitive to the Other Side. It's possible. Certainly Ella's own unique heritage has made her a bit atypical for magicians, at least so far as she can tell if she compares herself to Alec - their types of magic notwithstanding, of course.

It's too bad that banshees only _hear_.

But.

But what if Alice wasn't limited to only _hearing_?

"Oh, shit. I know that look," Peter says from behind the counter, putting his phone down with wide eyes. "You've just had an _idea_."

"I just had an idea," she confirms.

"Your ideas are usually scary."

"They are not."

"Well they usually don't turn out so great. Lots of dying happens when you have an idea."

Ella rolls her eyes. "Nobody is going to die."

"Uh huh."

"Alice is just going to…open her eyes."

Peter makes a vague sound of worry.

The thing is that Ella's magician's vision can come and go at her will, but _tracking_ a specific lifeline was something she had to learn how to achieve and she could only do that with Raven's help. By focusing on her familiar, Ella had been able to learn how to pluck at a specific lifeline and follow it. But she seriously doubts that she would have learned that over time by trial and error - there was simply too much interference with all the other lifelines that she couldn't find a center.

What if the same is true for Alice? Sure, she can hear the Whispers in incredible clarity, but what if all that noise in her ears is acting as interference for something else? Something _more_?

What if Alice could _see_ , too?

Ella has no idea how to make that happen, but it's worth a shot.

* * *

 **A/N: Admittedly, Peter is probably right that most of Ella's ideas involve a lot of dying.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	196. part 14: 4: shady as fuck

**four**

 **shady as fuck**

* * *

Between the druid, the shaman, and the one other magician she knows, Ella has come to the conclusion that Alice will require some kind of _stone_ or _crystal_ to boost her connection to the Other Side enough to get some kind of visual clue. The only problem is that Carlisle, Black, and Alec can't seem to agree on a single stone that would be best used - Carlisle is firmly behind beryl, Black seems to think moonstone, and Alec insists on quartz.

Admittedly, in a fit of pique, Ella had dropped by one of the funky hedgewitch shops, where she had been told that dancing naked beneath a new moon - when the veil between living and dead is apparently thinnest - would be the best way to accomplish the task. Figuring that Alice wouldn't be up for _that_ , she'd paid a visit to Kate, the representative for harbingers, who had only been very confused at Ella's inquiries, because apparently it wasn't a thing that was done.

Ever.

All in all, _none_ of this is very helpful and as the days pass with only Alice's twisted rhyme as a clue to what's coming their way, Ella becomes more short-tempered. She's in a black mood by the time she's resorted to hunting down every raw stone and crystal she can get her hands on. Between herself and Peter, they've pin-pointed all the literature that even _hints_ at a stone being used as a conductor for foresight and have placed calls to collectors and sellers all across the country.

It's a tedious task.

She's in the middle of convincing UPS to rush the delivery of the rare white kyanite - the most promising gemstone she could find - when the bell over _The Magic Shop_ 's door chimes. Ella's spine stiffens. Even distracted by a phone call, she should have sensed someone coming through her wards. And yet, _nothing_.

Her eyes flicker up, tracing over the svelte figure standing in the doorway of her store, and the first thing that comes to mind is the word _dull_. The woman is a tired looking thirty-something with limp, washed-out dark red curls and muddy brown eyes, all set in a face that would have been beautiful if not for the wan complexion. She's thin and tall, almost gaunt in the cheeks, and is wearing a smart, drab grey pantsuit with a crisp white collar; the lapel is adorned with a single golden pin shaped into a C, which is then fixed into a thin equilateral triangle.

But stranger than the woman's oddly worn appearance is the way she doesn't feel like _anything_. Even her lifeline is dull. Ella might have mistaken it for human if not for its color, which is like tarnish or rust, and definitely isn't _human_.

Ella hangs up the phone. She can argue with delivery men later.

"Can I help you?"

The woman blinks slowly, the blank expression on her face shifting into one of polite inquiry. She takes a step further into the shop, looking supremely uncomfortable. "Are you Isobela Svane?"

"Cullen," Ella corrects curtly. "Who are you?"

"Victoria Rhys," she answers promptly, seemingly unbothered by Ella's impolite tone. "I'm the Deputy Director of The Coterie."

Ella stares for a beat.

The Coterie _? The fucking Coterie_? In Charmstone? After all this time _, now_ they decide they should pay a visit? She almost can't comprehend it. And sending a Deputy Director instead of some lower-rung agent? Well, that seems pretty fucking foreboding, too.

Ella arches a brow. "And you want to talk to _me?_ "

"Indeed. From our intelligence, you seem to be at the center of many supernatural episodes of the past two years."

"Are you arresting me or something?"

"The Coterie do not make arrests," Victoria answers blandly.

"So you're here to, what? Ask me questions about all the shit that's been happening, all the stuff I've been dealing with to keep this town safe?" Ella asks skeptically. Her _issues_ with authority are teetering on the edge of rearing an ugly head and Victoria is setting herself up to be in the crossfire.

"Precisely. The Director feels that it would be beneficial to understand your exact methods in handling these threats."

"Why?"

Victoria's expression slackens - for just a moment - in surprise. "Why?"

Ella leans forward, elbows on the counter, and nods. "Yeah. Why does the Director need to know if it's already all been dealt with?"

Victoria doesn't answer.

Ella scoffs. "Seems to me like your super secret stupid club should be spending more time actually addressing threats rather than playing cover-up in the shadows. Don't you think that makes more sense?"

Victoria opens her mouth to answer, a spark glimmering in her eye - and then visibly winces, snapping her mouth shut with an audible _click_. She clears her throat and says, "I see this is not a good time for us to speak. Perhaps after your business hours?"

"I doubt it," Ella says bluntly.

Victoria smiles stiffly, as if she hadn't heard Ella. "It was nice to meet you, Ms. Svane - my apologies, Ms. Cullen. I will see myself out."

Victoria leaves the same way she arrived, abruptly with only the bell above the door to herald her departure. Ella stares after her with narrowed eyes, mind tumbling over itself. "Well, that was shady as fuck," she decides, mumbling under her breath.

She pushes the _weird_ interaction, which only seemed like half a conversation, out of her head and reaches for her phone again, intent on hunting down crystals for Alice to try out.

It isn't until later that she wonders how Victoria knew her father's last name - especially since _Ella_ didn't know her birth father's last name until last summer. Because that's a detail that damn sure wasn't on her birth certificate. And Ella knows _that_ better than anyone.

She tasks Raven with following Victoria around.

Issues with authority or not, there's something fishy with Victoria Rhys.

* * *

 **A/N: Clues? _Clues_. Yep, _clues_.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	197. part 14: 5: kyanite

**five**

 **kyanite**

* * *

It's late morning the following Sunday when Ella lets Alice into the shop and leads her sister down to the workshop in the basement. Any winter chill is firmly buffered away by Ella's hasty warming charms. Their task will be hard enough without being _cold_ on top of it.

Alice smiles thinly in silent thanks, nerves making the skin around her pale green eyes tight. As always, Alice is the picture of perfection, not a hair out a place around a silver headband, not a pleat in her neat white skirt uncreased, the lapel of her collared shirt laying flat at the base of her neck. She folds a beige peacoat over her lap as she sits on one of two wooden stools that surround the workbench and then looks up at Ella expectantly.

"You don't have to do this," Ella says, a last-minute out because she suspects that this isn't going to be an _easy_ fix by any means. Everything is always a bit more complicated than it first appears.

Alice raises a brow. "We both know that this is our only option," she counters primly. There's a fastidiousness in Alice's countenance now, as if Ella's hesitation has given Alice some kind of strength. She seems more like the icy, focused girl Ella first met than the shaken, uncertain sister she has come to know.

Not for the first time, Ella laments that her arrival in Charmstone probably caused more trouble than anyone could have anticipated. Certainly there had been fewer monsters to deal with and before meeting her, Alice hadn't been so burdened by the Whispers.

To Ella, it seems like she's been _causing problems_ since she was a kid.

At least now she can do something about those problems. Or try.

With a sigh and silent acquiesce to Alice's point, Ella lifts the haphazard black cloth off the assortment of stones and crystals she's been collecting through a dozen expensive rush orders. Beryl, peridot, amethyst, and moonstone are clustered around crystalline shards of various quartz and more obscure minerals still rough from being unearthed; malachite, jadeite, nephrite, a selection of corals embedded with volcanic rocks. It's a lot and Ella can only feel a magical resonance from maybe a third of the collection, but she has no idea what will work for a banshee. Maybe nothing will and she will have only wasted her time.

Alice leans forward, peering down at the stones for a long moment. "I don't think I feel anything."

Ella snorts. "Yeah, I didn't think I'd feel anything from the amethyst either, but then I took it out of the box and got one hell of a surprise."

Alice makes a noise of interest as she looks at the violet crystal. "What's amethyst supposed to be good for?"

"Apparently, soothing the mind and protection."

Alice takes note of Ella's dubious tone. "Not quite the case?"

Ella shrugs. "Maybe for someone else with less dark magic, like Alec, or someone with less magic altogether. But I definitely didn't feel soothed or protected with that thing in my hand."

Quite the opposite, actually. Pretty unpleasant experience, all things told. Ella certainly wouldn't be physically touching amethyst anytime soon, that's for sure.

"So, maybe I should touch them to see if they react to me?"

Ella leans her elbows onto the worktable, hand cupped beneath her chin. "Do you have a better idea?"

Alice does not, in fact, have a better idea. Which is why they spend the next half-hour shunting aside stones and crystals that Alice has no reaction to, starting with the recommended beryl, moonstone, and quartz. They share a look after the first three failures and Ella makes a scathing comment about _men who don't know anything_ , which makes Alice laugh as she handles an equally-useless rose quartz.

Interestingly, though, while Alice doesn't have any resonance with gemstones, the _minerals_ make her give pause. Alice brings a chunk of malachite closer to her face, studying the streaks of dark green. She does the same for labradorite, a gorgeous, richly colored mineral. She sets both minerals to the side and keeps testing out the other rocks and crystals.

Ella is convinced that this entire enterprise is a massive waste of time. It was kind of a crapshoot anyway, thinking that she could figure out how to boost a banshee's connection to the Other Side when nobody else had figured out how to do so in a few thousand years. She'd been pretty arrogant to think otherwise, really.

But then Alice inhales sharply, a long column of an intensely blue-streaked mineral resting in the palm of her hand. Alice is wincing slightly, tilting her head to the side. "They're so loud," she declares, not quite a mumble.

Both of Ella's brows shoot upward. "The Whispers?"

Alice nods.

Ella plucks the mineralized crystal out of Alice's hand, examining it closely. "Huh. This is kyanite," she tells Alice. "I didn't even mean to buy it. The seller just threw it in as a bonus purchase."

Alice sits back, face relaxing now that the Whispers have returned to normal volume. "I've never heard the Whispers so clear. It's so distinct - much sharper compared to the malachite."

"Sharp enough to glean more information?" Ella wonders.

Alice bites her lip. "Maybe. If I practiced."

Ella had kind of been hoping for _visions_ \- but the promise of Alice being able to hear better clues is alluring and if it's the most that kyanite can do, then Ella will have to settle.

Decisively, Ella hunts the worktable for a scrap of cloth, carefully wrapping the kyanite up before she hands it to Alice. "You don't have to do this," she says again as Alice shrugs on her coat, preparing to leave.

Alice shoots her a _look_. "I'm going to be a journalist one day and journalists don't settle for anything less than the truth. I won't settle for anything less than clarity. Puzzling out these riddles from the Whispers is…exhausting, really." Alice's fingers close around the cloth-covered kyanite. "Maybe with this, I can learn how to take back some control."

Alice's commitment is heartening - honestly, it is.

But it doesn't make Ella feel any less guilty for prioritizing clues to the latest threat over the well-being of her sister.

However, guilt is something that Ella has learned to live with.

* * *

 **A/N: Crystal theory is super interesting _and_ complete bullshit. It's all just one huge placebo effect, if you ask me. However, with _magic_ involved, who knows what's real and what isn't balderdash? **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	198. part 14: 6: thinking too much

**six**

 **thinking too much**

* * *

The final few days leading up to the start of February - and the full moon - are marked by what can loosely be described as reconnaissance. Ironically, for as blunt as Ella can be, she's actually gotten good at this part. It's really only a matter of using the tools at her disposal to get a grip on whatever upcoming _excitement_ is on its way to Charmstone.

Hunters.

Easily the biggest concern, if she considers the grudge they _definitely_ have against her since she killed Stanley during her time travel stint. She's had Jasper keep track of their movements and he's done very well in analyzing their patterns, which aren't exactly as predictable as she might have thought. Thankfully, Jasper is a genius in all the ways that count when he isn't toking up and he has no qualms about hacking into whatever he has to in order to stay on top of the hunters.

The hunters are in Connecticut now, closer than they've been in a year. They've left destruction in their wake all across the rustbelt of America and it chafes, this fact that she _knows_ they're killing werewolves and likely other creatures by trapping them in the highly toxic manchineel ash - because if she'd just killed them _all_ in the first place, then she wouldn't be sitting on all this _guilt_.

But she hadn't killed anyone but Stanley in the past; and when the hunters turned up _before_ she got caught in a time loop, she hadn't eliminated them, either. So she has to live with what her inaction has cost. The only thing she can do is continue to monitor them. At least until they're within striking distance, that is. Then all bets are off.

Victoria Rhys.

Another problem. Probably. The woman was just plain weird, Deputy Director of The Coterie or not. And the fact that she sought out Ella specifically raises all kinds of alarm bells, doesn't it? Unless Ella is being paranoid, which is entirely possible.

She has Raven follow Victoria Rhys. Larger than most birds, Raven isn't exactly an invisible tail, so she keeps mostly at a distance. Raven reports that Victoria seems to be talking to people, gathering some kind of intelligence about the things that have been happening in Charmstone, even making a point to check in on anyone who was hospitalized for one reason or another. Nothing about that is suspicious, exactly, except for the fact that each time Victoria speaks with someone, she apparently ends up asking about _Ella_ , too.

Only Ella. Not about any of the people in Ella's circle or any of the other leaders on the town council. Which means that Victoria is trying to source information specifically about Ella for some unknown purpose - and _that_ is suspicious as hell. As far as she knows, she hasn't broken any Coterie laws, mostly because The Coterie doesn't seem to have any laws. If she didn't know the role they play in keeping the supernatural word a secret, she'd just write off the entire organization as completely useless.

Victoria's keen interest in Ella is more than a little concerning, especially since Victoria herself seems to be a ghost. Jasper can't dig up any information about the woman, almost as if she doesn't exist, and that means Ella only has one source of information to turn to.

She lingers after the weekly family dinner with Esme and Carlisle, sipping on the floral tea Carlisle has brewed. She turns a serious stare to the older couple and asks, "Do either of you remember a Victoria Rhys from your time in The Coterie?"

They do not.

Esme promises to reach out to some contacts she has to see if she can fish up anything about Victoria's career, which surely _must_ have been illustrious for her to be a Deputy Director before her relatively young age that Ella pins at least younger than 40.

Ella tells all of this to Anthony, unloading it from her chest when she can't find sleep the night before the full moon. He holds her hand, tracing the delicate knobs of her knuckles in the dark. He listens, because that's what she needs. Because all of _this_ is making the acute stress kick back up and she's finding herself more snappy than usual, walking on a fine line between vigilant and paranoid, and her sleep is less restful, dreams darker. Not as bad as after the imp or the hag, which means she's probably getting better but -

Her life feels like one big punchline sometimes. There's always something _else_. There's always another set-back.

She's tired, but she doesn't know how to be any other way.

"I'm so _over_ this," she mumbles, turning her face into his chest, fingers tangling in sheets and curly hair.

Anthony draws his palm down the entire curve of her spine and she shifts into the touch, like a cat seeking more attention. "You're thinking too much," he says.

"Am I?" she asks rhetorically, shifting to prop her chin on his chest. She pins him with a quizzical stare, taking in the sheer calm he radiates with a sense of envy. "How aren't you as wary as me?"

His lips tilt up a little wryly. "Because I know I'm not doing this on my own, which is something you seem to forget very easily," Tony points out.

Ella huffs. "That's not true at all. I'm outsourcing and delegating."

"Exactly. In the end, everyone reports back to you and you wind up taking the brunt of whatever turns up."

She frowns at him.

"You know, there's going to come a day when you won't have to do any of this. Maybe not tomorrow or next month or next year, but eventually…."He trails off and traces his thumb along the curve of her bottom lip. "Let me help you out."

She raises a brow in silent askance.

Tony's expression becomes heated and positively _wicked_. "You need something uncomplicated. Let me distract you from thinking too much."

Later, wrapped up in mussed sheets with her body still tingling and her mouth still salted from the taste of him, she's too wrung out to do anything except shut her mind off. Turns out all her loose ends can be tied up by Tony's touch.

* * *

 **A/N: Tony has the best ideas. Also featuring the mystery of Victoria Rhys, the looming threat of the hunters, and all the _promise_ of the full moon.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	199. part 14: 7: moonstruck

**seven**

 **moonstruck**

* * *

In the starry sky, the heavy moon shines a swath of bright light down onto the forest, banishing shadows from the eaves of trees and illuminating the isolated clearing near one of Beacon Lake's smaller run-off ponds. It's still winter, so there is a pervasive chill in the air, a fine layer of frost coating the vegetation, tiny icicles forming beneath low-hanging branches. The night is unforgiving in this bleak cold, in the way the coolness clings against the tips of her fingers and hovers as a misty fog each time Anthony breathes out, a steady presence hovering over her shoulder.

Ella turns slightly, beckoning Anthony with a subtle tilt of her lips, reaching back so her fingers can twine between his as she steps forward, guiding the both of them past the opaque crystalline wards she has just summoned.

Inside the circular dome of the ward, which fades to translucent at its highest point so that moonlight still shines through, they are protected from winter chill. Here the air is noticeably warm, the grass lush and soft, all sounds of the forest completely removed. It's like stepping into another world. A world just for them, just for this one unspeakably important night.

Ella doesn't have Anthony's enhanced hearing and to her the silence is deafening. Her eyes trace over the angular planes of his face, taking in the rough stubble growing at the hinge of his jaw and beneath his chin, the stray curl of burnt toffee hair flopping over the shiny scar of his brow, the intensity of his verdant eyes as he stares back at her.

All is still for one long moment.

This is the time to turn away, to step back and reassess. If they go forward as they plan, things will change; if they don't, things will stay the same. _They_ will stay the same. Their relationship will continue on this plateau, something steady and constant amid the tumult of their daily lives.

Ella has learned that change is inevitable.

And she loves him - truly loves him, like he is a piece of her that she didn't know was missing until she found him. She can't breathe without him. She needs him more than she needs the blood in her veins. She wants _more_ of him and she will accept nothing less.

Ella makes the first move, shrugging off the trusty vintage leather jacket that she has worn through all of her adventures in Charmstone. She doesn't need the protection that it offers at the moment, though. A flare of feminine pride rushes through her as Anthony's gaze becomes heated; he is admiring the way her bronzed skin looks beneath the moonlight, the way the black silk of her lace-edge camisole clings to her breasts.

"Your turn," she says archly.

"Didn't know we were taking turns," he returns. But he pushes the knit hat off his head and drops his own jacket onto the grass at their feet.

"I'm all about fairness," she says, feeling flirtatious. There's a flutter of anticipation in her stomach as she wiggles out of her jeans, toeing off her boots. Her toes curl into the spring-warm grass as she stands straight again. The magic in the earth beneath rumbles, a fluctuation of the ley lines rising to her subconscious call.

He smirks wryly. "I wouldn't want to disappoint you."

She scoffs, then conjures up a fluffed duvet in the middle of their clearing. It's a practical measure that works wonders to quell the nerves beating butterfly wings running wild between her ribs. Not even magic is a match for grass stains and if she _has_ to be outside and naked in the dark, she's going to be comfortable. She's still a city girl at heart, it seems.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watches as Anthony takes his time dragging his eyes up her body while he sheds the rest of his clothing, save for visibly tight boxer-briefs. Inexplicably, she feels heat crawling up her cheeks. He's never been particularly shy in expressing himself in this context and with him she finds the freedom to be open with her body and her sexuality. Objectively, Ella has always known that she possesses a certain exotic beauty, dark haired and light eyed, walking a line between two or three ethnicities. But growing up as she had, being pretty always meant being an _object_ and she had grown to resent the reflection in the mirror. Her mind and her talent as an artist, she has always maintained, has always been more impressive than her physical beauty.

Maybe that's why she blushes, now. Because when Anthony looks at her, she knows he isn't seeing an object - can feel his honest awe and admiration in the fledgling bond they share, as well as the healthy lust he has for her scent, her taste, her touch. All of it is emphasized by his love for her, his unabashed regard.

She blushes because this is _Tony_ and because he wants her and because she wants him and because all of their wanting is so utterly raw.

And because there is no going back after tonight.

Not that she would want to.

Anthony reaches for her, drawing her into his chest, tilting her head up even as he ducks down toward her. He meets her eyes with solemnity. He kisses her softly. He skims his hands down the sides of her neck, over the tops of her shoulders, pushing down the scanty straps of the camisole as he goes. The scrap of fabric slithers off her body and down to her feet, leaving her only in her underwear, and Ella gasps into his mouth when his hands delicately trace over her curves.

He pulls back, eyes dark and dilated. " _I love you as certain dark things are meant to be loved,_ " he quotes seriously. He places a trail of kisses down her neck with a reverent lightness, like she is a thing that can be broken as easily as glass. " _In secret_ ," he continues, mouthing at the dip of her neck and shoulder. " _Between the shadow and the soul_."

She grips at his shoulders, growing impatient as desire licks a flame up her spine, settling low and molten between her legs. "Save the poetry for later," she tells him, feeling both shy and needy.

Anthony concedes with a hungry kiss, nipping at her lips, bruising them swollen as they surge together.

Somehow, without Ella really realizing it, they have sprawled onto the duvet, entirely naked and nearly delirious between lust and the magic of the full moon responding to them. Even still, no matter how much she urges him faster, Anthony will not be persuaded into speeding through preparing her. He makes her shiver against his tongue and then almost languidly stretches her with two, then three fingers.

"Now," she says breathlessly.

He shakes his head, forehead pressed against her hip, unmoved by her relentless tugging on his hair. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," she promises.

Anthony raises a brow and then pointedly curls his fingers upward, rubbing against that delicious spot inside that causes her hips to buck upwards, clit pushing against the base of his hand. "One more," he says.

Feeling the promise of a second orgasm, Ella still eyes him incredulously. "Are you _negotiating_?"

He smirks. "Is it working?"

She might have scowled at him if he hadn't curled his fingers again and pushed her over the edge. She doesn't miss the smug expression on his face, though, and her eyes widen when he tucks a forth finger alongside the others for a few experimental thrusts, which bring her down from the high of orgasm with bone-melting ease.

"Please," she hears herself plead.

Anthony presses a lingering kiss to her hip bone, pulls his fingers away from her sodden core, and maneuvers them until she is on her hands and knees and he is kneeling behind her. They've talked about what to expect on this full moon, about what was required to form a fully-fledged mating bond for a werewolf. Ella is at ease in this position, with Anthony draped over her back, caging her in as he slowly guides himself inside the welcome heat of her body.

Ella presses back against him, fluttering around his intrusion as he moves at a steady pace, his mouth hot against the side of her neck. She tilts her hips back, feeling the delicious heat building again, and stretches her neck to the side - an invitation.

Anthony's hips snap forward, hard and abrupt, and in that second, something changes. The werewolf shift seems to come over him suddenly, sharpening the teeth scraping against her skin, lengthening the nails of his fingers as they bite into her hips. Ella shudders half in pain when his teeth sink into the tender meat of her neck and Anthony _growls_ , arms wrapping around her firmly as he hauls her against his chest as he shifts to sit back on his knees. The angle shifts as her spine arches backward and the speed of his thrusts quickens, until breathy moans are being fucked right out of her.

Ella scrambles to get a grasp on the firm sinew of his forearms, her eyes squeezing shut when one clawed finger rubs firm circles over her clit. She cries out, shuddering in his arms, and Anthony snarls in her ear as he thrusts into her. There is a new heat to his cock and her grasping core stretches around him as he buries his knot as deeply as he can, locking his jaw around her neck as heat begins to fill her fluttering core.

Her vision flashes silver, blinding and bright, for the space of a moment and something _clicks_ in her mind.

Her chest is heaving, nipples tight in magic-warmed air, her ears ringing as blood and magic rushes through her body. Her mind feels a little fuzzy, a little dizzy. She's impaled on a _knot_ and her werewolf mate is still _coming_ and she feels downright boneless, like she's run a marathon or something.

It isn't like the knot is a surprise, or anything. It's something that happens to born werewolves on full moons, especially when their blood is running as hot as Anthony's is at the moment. He'd been very frank about this happening, but the reality of it is something else.

Ella just had super intense weird werewolf sex and judging by the way Anthony is now lapping away the blood on her newly marked neck, she doesn't think its quite over yet.

He shifts them with a short growl until they are laying on their sides, his knot still lodged firmly inside her as he moves, all slow and deliberate and in control. Ella quivers against his chest when his palm presses against her throat, clawed fingers framing her jaw, angling her chin up so that he can have access to her neck, which he lavishes with hot kisses. His other hand roves over her body, feeling the weight of her breasts, plucking at her nipples until she shivers, clenching down on his knot again.

Anthony's chest rumbles softly, his claws scraping down her belly until he is able to softly pet at her swollen clit, mindful of how fragile her skin is. He grinds slowly into her, panting against her neck as his knot moves _just right_ against her overly sensitive walls.

Gasps escape her mouth as she squirms, both retreating and seeking the overwhelming attention of his touch over her strung-out body. She might say his name, more of a plea than anything else. Her short nails drag up his arms and she arches her back, reaching backward to tangle her fingers into his hair. And when release finds her this time, she can almost feel an echo of it from Anthony's side of their bond, which is rich and full and _warm_.

Her eyes roll backward in delirious pleasure.

When she opens them, she and Anthony are still angled around each other, but this time their chests are pressed together. His dark lashes brush against the arc of his cheekbones, mouth slackened in sleep. He is peaceful and settled and while she is a bit sore, it's nothing that magic can't fix in the blink of a second.

The moon is setting and the sun is rising. The opaque ward that has encased them in a fabled springtime is still functioning, but around them are scores of fully bloomed wildflowers, petals soft and bright and completely out of place in the winter that is beyond the ward.

Ella's heart flips, warmth spreading through her limbs, and she hides a secret smile into her mate's chest.

She didn't believe in omens before Charmstone, but it's hard not to see the creation her magic created in response to her completed mate bond with Anthony as anything other than a sign of good things to come.

After all, change is inevitable.

And everything can't be all bad all the time.

* * *

 **A/N: *clears throat* So, that happened. I'm just going to... *walks away awkwardly avoiding eye contact***

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	200. part 14: 8: better than words

**eight**

 **better than words**

* * *

"So, what's it like being werewolf married?"

Ella rolls her eyes at Peter's inquiry, internally wondering how much it's been killing him to keep that question bottled up until _The Magic Shop_ cleared itself of customers. He's been practically vibrating out of his skin for the last ten minutes and he's been obnoxiously sniffing the air the second he stepped into the store, shooting Ella a series of increasingly smarmy grins.

Busy as she is dealing with customers while Jane is in class, Ella had called on every reserve of her slim patience to not snap at Peter from sheer annoyance. But now that the shop is empty, she spares a second to shoot a zap of electricity at his side, even as she answers, "It's fine."

Peter yelps. "Ouch! You hexed me!" he accuses dramatically.

"You were being nosy," she replies blandly.

"Mean. So _mean_ ," he mutters, rubbing at the skin they both know has already healed. Dropping his hands to his side, he meanders over to the glass countertop, wiggling his eyebrows. "But no, really, what's it _like_? And _don't_ just tell me that it's fine or whatever, because we Betas Three _definitely_ felt _something_ on the full moon and me-thinks it might've been you, like, connecting to the pack bond."

She tilts her head thoughtfully, glancing down at the magician's glass adorning her wrists. While the design itself is the same, delicate silver chains wrapping around her wrists, thumbs, and fingers, the glass itself isn't quite shattered anymore; whereas before, the shards of her magician's glass were sharp and triangular, they are now a series of circles in varied sizes interspersed around the chains. As a representation of her very soul, her magician's glass isn't the broken thing it once was, but it isn't fully repaired as the two rings it ought to be, either. Still, her magic feels more settled, more balanced in a way that even meditation hadn't managed to achieve.

It isn't the only change, either. Bonding with Tony has fixed something inside her mind, too. She'll never have perfectly stable emotions and she will always be prone to the constant thrum of anger that is always banked within her breast, but she no longer feels quite as _raw_. The stress of being who she is, of having the position she has in Charmstone and the responsibilities that she's taken on, no longer makes her want to gnash her teeth and strike out at the nearest target. She feels oddly at peace, balanced and steadied by the profound bind of her soul to her mate's, their lifelines twining tightly around each other, silver and lupine gold and lined with pewter, healthy and strong and poignant.

Mind and magic and mental health aside, she's also begun to notice that her hearing is a bit better than it was before and that she feels physically stronger. Tony seems to be more sensitive to magic, too, being able to tell when he passes through a ward and - as he puts it - he can _taste_ Ella's magic specifically. These changes are largely unanticipated. They both thought that completing the mating bond would finalize access to each other's emotions and, to a certain extent, a shared lifeforce, just like any other werewolf bond.

Figures a mating bond between a werewolf and a _magician_ would be more special. Doubly so because the magician is Ella and she's an anomaly all around.

Ella doesn't know whether _more_ benefits from the bond would be a good or bad thing.

"It's good," Ella finally answers, a private smile on her lips. "Wonderful, even."

It strikes her that she doesn't often speak this honestly with Peter and judging by the way Peter grins at her brightly, he knows and appreciates her candor.

He opens his mouth to say something - probably something in bad taste, as is his wont - when Ella suddenly straightens up, eyes fixated sharply on the door.

Victoria Rhys is standing just outside the wards of _The Magic Shop_.

"Stay here," she tells Peter tersely, all relaxation of the previous minutes instantly forgotten.

Peter looks fit to argue, but bites his tongue at the withering stare she shoots him. Instead, he pointedly pulls out his phone and taps on The Goodfellow's app. "Just in case," he mutters.

Ella dips her chin in acknowledgement and heads for the door, tuning out the ringing bell as she shuts the shop door behind her, a calculating stare already settled on the drab, washed-out form standing in the middle of the afternoon street.

This is the second time Ella has seen Victoria in person and she again has the thought that Victoria is strangely _dull_ , like a corroded copper penny. Wan, gaunt, and now discernibly frazzled, Victoria does not quite resemble the Deputy Director she'd met a few weeks ago. Through Raven's eyes, Ella has come to learn that Victoria is always well put-together, even if she always looks a touch too pallid. Seeing Victoria in a wrinkled pantsuit and wild hair now is distinctly _off_.

Especially because Victoria's eyes are wide and glassy and her lips look bitten raw. She's wringing her hands and staring back at Ella with desperation, her mouth working silently, like words are fighting to come out but she can't find her voice.

Ella takes a step forward, slow and as cautious as she's ever been.

Victoria flinches back, stumbling further away from the wards.

Ella stops her approach immediately. Something isn't _right_ with Victoria Rhys, this mysterious woman who former Coterie agents don't remember, this roughshod person who it seems came to Charmstone just to ask about Ella Cullen, who she apparently knows _better_ as Isobela Svane, a surname that Ella herself had been ignorant of until a year ago. And now Victoria Rhys appears to be fighting a desperate battle with herself on Ella's doorstep.

Yes, something is very wrong here.

Ella just doesn't know what it is.

"Can I help you?" she asks lowly, almost gently.

Victoria freezes, drawing in a sharp breath. Her neck twitches, like she can't decide if she should nod or shake her head, and her teeth dig into the side of her lip hard enough to draw blood.

Ella feels a flare of alarm, but stays rooted in her spot. She narrows her eyes in thought. Victoria doesn't respond well when Ella approaches, but she does _sort of_ respond when Ella asks a question.

Shit. Ella is so not the person to be dealing with whatever Victoria's crisis is - her people skills leave _so much_ to be desired. But she has to try. Victoria, despite whatever reason she seems to be investigating Ella, came here for a reason.

"Can you help me?" Ella tries, tilting her head.

Victoria freezes again, but she releases her lip.

Is it some kind of spell? Victoria isn't human - Ella can tell that much - but her lifeline is _weird_ and Ella supposes it's possible that magic is somehow involved in….whatever this is. Not any magic that Ella's heard of, though.

She sighs. "Can you speak at all? Did you have something you wanted to say?"

Victoria shudders, her fingers twisting around themselves sharply, and Ella can almost hear Victoria's heart stutter.

A beat of silence.

Then, Victoria spits out, "I didn't know! I'm trying!"

Ella blinks. "Didn't know what?"

Victoria shakes her head wildly, stumbling backward again -

And then, right before Ella's eyes, it's like a switch is flipped. Victoria's gaze is suddenly unfocused, her back straight, an affable, polite smile on her bloodied lips as she straightens her jacket. "That will be all," Victoria says woodenly. "Good afternoon, Ms. Cullen."

Victoria walks away nonchalantly.

Ella watches her wander down the sidewalk, disbelief and confusion rolling through her mind. "What the fuck was that?" she mumbles to herself, pushing the hair off her face. She goes back into _The Magic Shop_ feeling perturbed.

"Dude," Peter says from where he is standing by one of the shop windows. "She manic, or something? That was such a Jekyll-Hyde thing…"

Ella frowns in consternation. "There's something very strange about that woman."

"No kidding."

Ella's mind is _whirling_. She is often an instinctual creature, she knows, and her instincts have very rarely proven wrong. Something is really very wrong with Victoria Rhys and Ella has a niggling sense that it is somehow related to magic. Because Victoria might have been fighting against herself - but she could have also been fighting against _someone else_.

The way Victoria was behaving, even if she couldn't speak, she gave so many more indications that are better than words.

Victoria Rhys needs help.

"Peter."

"Hmm?"

"Have you ever come across mind magics in your research?"

Peter fumbles his phone. "Well, as a matter of fact, I _totally_ have, boss. What do you want to know?"

Ella smiles grimly. "Let's start with mind control spells."

* * *

 **A/N: Probably a good idea, Ella. Just saying!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	201. part 14: 9: a shakespearean twist

**nine**

 **a shakespearean twist**

* * *

The door at the top of the basement stairs opens abruptly, quickly followed by Peter's voice calling down to her. "But soft! What light through yonder, er, door breaks? It is the east, and Ella is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon-"

"Shh!" Ella hushes sharply, unwilling to break her concentration as she carefully carves runes into wooden blocks. "I'll be right up, failwolf."

"I think you might mean Romeo," Peter retorts as he comes down the stairs.

"No, I meant what I said," she mumbles.

"Rude," he admonishes. Peter circles around the worktable, mindful not to touch anything. "Anyway, how was my Shakespeare? Convincing?"

Ella hums noncommittally.

Peter curses. "I never should have let Riley talk me into taking that stupid class. Did you know the syllabus states that mid-terms are going to be acting scenes from three completely random Shakespearian plays? I'm doomed."

She snorts, then blows wood shavings off the blocks. "It's still useful for your degree, right? Suck it up. You'll be fine."

Peter squints at her. "When did you get _so reasonable_?"

"Must have hit my head or something," she retorts wryly.

He barks out a laugh, then raises his brows. "Anyway, are you about done here? Most everybody is upstairs and already arguing about what movies are most appropriate for a Valentine's weekend marathon and when I left, Mickie was starting to lobby for _A Walk To Remember_ because she's clearly evil and wants everyone to ugly-cry, and I desperately need back up for 80's rom-coms."

Ella stares at him, unmoved.

Peter sighs. "Plus, Lillian and Emet are going to pick up the Chinese and I made sure that they remembered to get your hot mustard, because I'm a good bestie."

"What about the Hu-"

"Hunan spicy beef? Yes, they're getting that too," Peter says with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "Nobody would want to forget any of your insanely spicy favorites, mostly because we like to watch in awe and terror when you eat it as if your tongue isn't on fire."

Ella snorts. Somehow, her eating habits are cause for concern among her friends. Either she's eating too spicy or she's drinking too much coffee; and Jane has taken to openly worrying that Ella is going to get some kind of stomach ulcer, placing yogurts beneath Ella's nose every few days out of concern. She placates these concerns because it's easier than fighting against it and, really, she's so busy between the shop and everything else that it's kind of nice having to not think about what to eat.

Ella finishes up the runic cube, places it alongside others that are almost ready to sell, and obediently follows Peter upstairs, promising to support his bid for _The Princess Bride_ , which is apparently the perfect romantic comedy that has ever been made. The face he makes when she pretends she's never seen it makes her laugh so hard her ribs hurt.

When she strides into the loft still laughing at Peter's indignation, she comes face-to-face with her mate, who stares down at her with a private, warm smile and catches her against his chest. He tucks her hair behind her ear and she leans into his touch, mirth flooding through their bond. He's happy to see her happy like this, a thing that is so rare.

It's enough to convince Tony to cast his vote for Peter's movie, which tips the scales in Peter's favor, much to his exaggerated relief. Their large group scatters around the living room, half of them on hastily conjured furniture and ready when Lillian and Emet arrive with the food. Jasper cues the movie, Alice hands out forks to those who don't have a lot of luck with chop sticks, and then next five minutes are filled with cartons of food passing between hands as everyone takes their share of eggrolls, crab rangoon, and fried wantons. Ella's favored dish is untouched by anyone else and she unabashedly hogs the carton of Hunan beef, settled firmly against Tony's side with his arm draped over her shoulder.

For a few blissful moments, Ella forgets that she's been waiting for the pendulum to swing for the last two weeks, forgets that she's been anticipating the return of Victoria Rhys and the mystery shrouding the woman's presence.

All is peaceful. Calm. Safe.

Figures that it doesn't last.

The movie isn't even halfway through when a familiar presence skirts the wards around the building; Ella's attention shifts sharply and, being so in-tune, she and Tony set their food aside at the same moment. They are already standing when Jasper fumbles to pause the movie and then everyone is looking up at them, bewildered.

Except for Alec, who has his head turned to the window outside, his face blank in shock.

"What is it?"

"Is something wrong?"

"The hot mustard sauce is over here."

" _Bree!_ "

"Well, why else would they move so fast?"

Emet is the first to realize the cause. "There is another seeking your attention," he says wisely.

Ella frowns, because she isn't sure that attention is what Victoria wants, but she nods anyway. She looks up at Tony. "Just like we talked about."

He scowls. "I don't like it."

"It makes the most sense," she counters quickly.

"Doesn't mean I have to like it," he says, a bit mulishly. But her mate is ever practical and they _have_ discussed what the plan would be if Victoria came back. Their goal is answers, because there is something very shifty going on, and since Alice isn't having a whole lot of luck with making the Whispers tell her things that are actually useful, their next best bet is Victoria.

Because coincidences don't exactly happen in Charmstone. And Ella just knows that somehow, the riddle Alice heard and Victoria are connected.

Instead of arguing about it and wasting time, Tony takes charge of everyone in the loft, keeping them calm and watchful as Ella goes about the rest of the plan, which mostly involves dragging Alec down to the basement to retrieve the quartz that they have prepared for this exact occasion.

The thing is that Ella knows very little about magic outside of practical applications. She can cast spells and create wards and play with runes and manipulate sigils all day long, but the fact of the matter is that most of her knowledge is for offensive and defensive purposes. Ella knows battle magic and earth magic and blood magic. She knows about magic that helps her survive.

Ella does not know about the other branches of magic, of which there are _many_ disciplines that had never even crossed her mind. There hasn't been much use in searching for other magics when what she has usually works.

Only, in researching mind magics with Peter, it became rapidly clear that whatever was wrong with Victoria would probably have to be cleansed, otherwise there was a high risk that Ella would just completely fuck up Victoria's mind for life. Which meant that Ella went to the next-best expert in illusive magic she knows, which happens to be Alec, who had been trained in the theory of most magical disciplines since he was a little boy. Alec, being the passive scholar that he is, immediately knew the best and least harmful way to cleanse Victoria of whatever magics are controlling her and since Ella already had a collection of crystals that she'd probably never otherwise use, it was pretty much a no-brainer to come up with a solution.

Of course, Ella hadn't thought Alec would look this _lost_ when the opportunity to fix Victoria presented itself. She leaves him in the shop, jots down to the basement for the quartz carved up with sigils, and returns to the shop floor to find Alec gaping in the middle of the room.

"Alec."

He startles, drawing his eyes away from the dull visage of the woman standing outside the stop. "Sorry, what?"

She prods his shoulder. "Are you helping or what?"

Alec's throat clicks when he hastily swallows, but he follows her outside anyway. When he lingers by the door, she immediately puts his weirdness out of her mind, chalking it up to Alec's general discomfort with confrontation.

Naturally, Ella has no such qualms and artlessly marches right up to Victoria, ignoring the way Victoria flinches away from her, eyes darting around like a cornered animal. Ella's hands flare with silvery magic, which she centralizes into the quartz and then unceremoniously thrusts into Victoria's hands.

Victoria takes the crystal, eyes widening in recognition, and then screams out in pain, trying to drop the quartz that has fused itself to her skin for however long it takes to cleanse the awful magic out of Victoria's system.

Ella doesn't flinch. She's seen and heard worse than a woman screaming in the middle of the street.

Instead, she watches with unwavering focus, brows rising in mild interest when the dullness begins to fade away from Victoria. Pallid skin warms to a sun-kissed gold; tangled dark curls brighten to a shining copper; and muddy brown eyes flare a very bright, very familiar gold before evening out into a light shade that resembles sunlight through amber glass.

Ella has seen eyes like that before.

Behind her, Alec gasps. "It can't be," he says shakily.

Victoria drops the quartz, which shatters at her feet and releases tendrils of sick, dark green smoky magic. She is inhaling desperate, ragged breathes, like she hasn't really _breathed_ in a long time, and she's swaying on her feet, knees weak inside her wrinkled suit. She's still gaunt and tired-looking, but she's no longer washed-out. Victoria is as vivid as her lifeline, which shines golden-white.

Alec comes to stand near Victoria, hesitantly reaching a hand out to support the woman's elbow. He's staring at her like she's a ghost. Or like he's seeing someone who he only knows from pictures in the flesh for the very first time. Someone who was thought to be dead.

Even before Alec speaks, Ella knows exactly who the woman going by Victoria Rhys really is. They have the same eyes and very similar lifelines. It isn't that hard to figure out, now that the woman has been cleansed of the magic that was strangling her.

"Merlynn? Is it really you?" Alec wonders in a tremulous whisper.

Victoria - Merlynn - the woman cries and, like a marionette free of its strings, collapses in the middle of the street, losing consciousness as Alec catches her.

Alec looks up at Ella with wide eyes.

Ella lets out a slow breath. "Holy shit."

She didn't expect that to happen.

* * *

 **A/N: *whistles innocently***

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	202. part 14: 10: by any other name

**ten**

 **by any other name**

* * *

"Get off the couch," Ella orders as she hurries into the loft, one hand held behind her as she levitates Victoria - Merlynn - up the stairs between herself and Alec, who is looking at the woman in a dazed state.

Nobody moves, perhaps not quite able to comprehend what they're seeing. It's all round eyes and disbelieving stares and a few not-so-subtle airs of accusation because, really, it wouldn't exactly be a surprise to anyone if _Ella_ were the reason for an unconscious older woman. And admittedly, it is kind of Ella's fault, given that she made Victoria - Merlynn - fuck, that's annoying - hold the damn quartz to break whatever that mind-fuck magic was.

Ella, not feeling particularly patient, presses her magic forward so that the sheer force of it bodily moves people out of the way. " _Now_ ," she snaps, teeth clicking, eyes blazing.

Bree and Mickie and Peter hasten to comply, scrambling off a couch, while Riley follows at a more sedate pace. A space cleared, Ella lowers the woman of many monikers onto the couch and stands for a moment, mind racing.

This is the second time the woman has come to the shop in that state, which Ella can guess is evidence of her fighting whatever spell had made her so freakishly compliant. The first time she came, she told Ella that she _didn't know_ and that she _tried_ , or whatever. So, clearly, she had a message she wanted to deliver badly enough to go through the trouble of fighting off a stronger magic than her own.

What message was she trying to deliver this time? Before Ella gave her that carved-up quartz, she'd certainly _looked_ like she had something to say.

Something important?

Beyond that, the fact remains is that the woman was sent her by _someone_ to gather information on Ella. Raven's monitoring had proven that much, at least.

Which begs the question - who sent her?

And, actually, isn't she supposed to have died?

"What's going on here?"

"Was she the one screaming?"

"Sounded painful."

"Who is she?"

"Does she need a doctor? I can call -"

"No," Ella quickly answers, snapping back to the present with a decisive jerk of her head. "No, no doctors, no police, no telling _anyone_ that she's here."

The Goodfellows all fall silent, each of them a varying level of uncertain. Tony comes to stand beside her, piercing her with an intense stare that she knows is taking the measure of her relative state, and then he shifts, subtly inhaling the scent of the woman on the couch. "She doesn't smell like pain or sickness. Just magic."

Thinking of the swirl of dark, inky green magic that came out of the shattered quartz crystal, Ella frowns in pensive reflection. "Probably some gnarly dark magic," she mutters.

"Doesn't smell pleasant, I'll give you that," he confirms. "But there's a different sort of scent underneath that. Kind of smells like…" Tony trails off, his gaze lifting to track Alec still standing stock-frozen in the doorway of the loft. His jaw ticks; she can practically see the wheels turning in his head, never mind the flash of realization that seeps from his side of their bond.

"That would be because she's Alec's long-lost not-quite-as-dead-as-previously-assumed older sister," Ella says bluntly, ignoring the various spluttering and stammering queries from the rest of the room. "I guess that makes her my aunt, too."

Tony lifts a scarred brow, crossing his arms over his chest. "Alright," he says after a moment.

" _Alright_?" Bree parrots incredulously.

"That's it?" Peter bleats, waving his hands in the air. "That's - that isn't - you can't just, like, _accept_ that explanation just so - you're both _nuts!_ "

"I think you might mean cavalier," says Riley.

"Now isn't time for your vocabulary lessons," Peter tells him.

"I should think not," Riley replies lightly. "Those are best given in private."

Peter blushes hotly and Ella _really_ doesn't want to know.

"But _who_ is she?" Lillian asks, pushing closer to the couch to get a better look. "She's at least thirty, right? She's got to have a name."

Ella purses her lips. "She has a few."

Lillian blinks. "A few?"

Ella shrugs.

Meanwhile, Jane has circled around to Alec and is touching his shoulder in concern, the ivy bracelet on her wrist slipping down. It's the kind of casual touch that Jane shies away from with literally everyone else, except Ella, and that more than anything tells Ella just how close Jane and Alec really are. Just looking at their lifelines, already tentatively twining together, and that tender touch tells Ella that there is nothing _casual_ about Jane and Alec dating. Any other time, she might have had the thought that she hopes this development means that both Jane and Alec will be sticking around Charmstone for a while.

But now, her focus is on the way Alec releases a shaky breath, scrubbing a hand down his face. He seems to have been absorbing all the conversations around him while he was locked in that silent stupor, because the first thing he says is, "Merlynn Victoria Emerhys, first born of my father and his first wife, Odette, a Scottish witch who died in childbirth in 1974," he divulges hesitantly. "My sister died in Persia just over twenty years ago, some kind of fire that had to do with The Order. Her death is the reason my father fled to Asia and eventually met my mother, and had me….But she isn't….Merlynn is _alive_ and I don't understand…"

Ella supposes that the attack that was supposed to have killed Merlynn Victoria Emerhys in Persia was also the reason that her own mother ran away to New York and decided to bind Ella's magic - all to hide from The Order of Mordred. Right? It would at least explain why Ella was born in one place and orphaned in another. Maybe.

Jane, naturally, is the first to do the math and she looks at _Merlynn_ in surprise. "She's 45?"

"Magicians age differently than most everyone," Alec answers distractedly. He shakes his head. "She looks just like she did in the pictures…"

Ella can't imagine what Alec must be feeling. Hell, she barely knows what _she's_ feeling, other than a healthy dose of wariness. Whatever had happened to Merlynn during all that time can't have been all sunshine and fucking roses.

Exhibit A: the woman as out-cold on her couch after being cleansed from some seriously dark magic.

God.

Ella clenches her teeth together, batting down the seething frustration building up between her lungs, the kind of anger that makes her want to yell and break things because it has to _get out_ somehow or she might literally combust and -

Alice exhales quietly, still seated beside Jasper, and immediately drawing Ella's attention with a softly-spoken, "Goodness…"

Everyone, except Alec, looks at Alice.

"What, Alice?" Tony asks expectantly.

Alice looks right at Merlynn. "It's her," she says simply, if not a bit stunned.

Ella's brows knit together tightly. "Her, as in…. _she_?"

"As in _she_ of the riddles?" Peter demands. "How? _What_?"

Alice shakes her head, pulling out the blue kyanite from her pocket, which she has evidently just been carrying around with her. She palms the stone absently. "I just… _know_ ," she says helplessly. "She's the one the Whispers are talking about."

And as they are all absorbing _that_ little bomb, a soft groan comes from the couch, sunlight-bright eyes fluttering open in confusion and pain.

Merlynn is awake.

* * *

 **A/N: Hope this cleared up any confusion as to who and how old Merlynn/Victoria is...**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	203. part 14: 11: the revelations of she

**eleven**

 **the revelations of she**

* * *

Aside from the color of their eyes and the shade of their lifelines, Alec and Merlynn do not resemble each other very much; Ella assumes the same can be said for her own mother, Renee, the middle child in this strange family tree. As half-siblings sharing the same father, there are only vague echoes of shared features between Alec and Merlynn. The chin, the shape of the forehead, the height of the cheekbones, all of which Ella has seen in the mirror a time or two.

But standing together, nobody would ever guess that the three of them are all that remains of Merlin's bloodline, even if Ella is also a child of Morgan le Fay. Of course, nobody would have guessed that Merlynn herself was alive after all these years, but here she is, sitting on Ella's couch, looking both pensive and extremely traumatized.

It must really suck to come out of twenty years of mind control in the span of a few seconds. Ella's actually a little surprised that Merlynn is awake so soon, but hell, _magic_.

Merlynn seems to take the measure of her surroundings even as she hastens to sit up, pressing a hand against her forehead like she's dizzy. With pale cheeks, she looks right at Ella and says, _"Thank you_ for freeing me."

Ella shifts uncomfortably at the praise. It's not like she was doing it for Merlynn's sake, really. "It was nothing," she says, feeling awkward under her long-lost aunt's gaze.

Merlynn smiles a little sadly. "Renee didn't receive gratitude well, either."

It doesn't escape Ella's notice that her mother is spoken of in the past tense. Definitely dead, then. Not that Ella was _hoping_ for another mistake in not-so-dead family members, but…She pushes the thought away and turns her mind to the bigger issue.

Which is the niggling suspicion of _why_ Merlynn had come to see Ella in the first place.

Ella steps away from Tony and the rest of the Goodfellows, seating herself artlessly on the coffee table in front of the couch, elbows on her knees and fingers folded together. She watches as Merlynn's eyes widen, following the thin, silvery scars carved into her skin and unique design of Ella's magician's glass wrapped around both hands. Ella ignores the pity in Merlynn's gaze and latches onto the longing hidden in the depths of sunlight-bright eyes.

Merlynn doesn't have a magician's glass - no sort of ring or amulet or anything that Ella can see to help Merlynn control her magic, as all magician's must. She makes a note of that, stowing it away in the back of her mind along with the fact that Merlynn, in spite of recognizing Ella as Renee's daughter, doesn't seem to recognize Alec at all. But of course, Merlynn was supposed to have died before he was even conceived.

God, what a headache.

Ella sighs internally, centering herself on the priority at the moment. Merlynn, while she'd been acting as Victoria Rhys, had been trying to tell Ella something. Probably something important, maybe something urgent.

Ella fixes Merlynn with an intense stare, pleased when Merlynn straightens subtly in response. "You've been trying to tell me something," Ella says bluntly. "What is it?"

Merlynn's expression is tense and she shakes her head. "I…Everything is so fuzzy…"

"Try," Ella cuts in curtly.

Alec steps forward. "Now, wait a minute. Give her some time to-"

"I don't think we have time," Ella says darkly. Her mind flashes Alice's riddle and the way that Alice is _so sure_ that Merlynn is the _she_ ; and Alice has never been quite wrong. Plus, everything that Raven has seen and Jasper's reports about the hunter's movements.

Time is ticking away and Ella will be damned if they _waste_ it by molly-coddling a perfect stranger. Her mother's older sister or not, Ella doesn't _know_ Merlynn - and she can't be asked to care overmuch for Merlynn's feelings, not when she has an entire populace relying on her to do what needs to be done. Leave the caring for other people who are better at it.

"I know you had something you wanted me to know," Ella tells Merlynn, leaning forward with a flare of her magic. "It must have been really important for you to fight so hard against whoever was controlling you. You need to tell me what it is."

Merlynn twitches, expression pinching in deep thought - and then she gasps. "Hunters…"

Ella arches a brow. "We already know about the hunters. They're getting closer everyday."

Merlynn shakes her head, suddenly looking rather fierce. "No, you don't understand. The hunters aren't just hunters - they work for The Order directly under the Overseer- _Ah!"_ Merlynn shouts, clutching her head in obvious pain.

Ella stares blankly ahead, looking beyond Merlynn's wincing.

The hunters are working for The Order of Mordred? And there's some kind of Overseer that Merlynn obviously can't talk about for some reason, even though the quartz _should_ have cleansed all the foreign magic out of Merlynn. Unless the spell was cast in a more _permanent_ way.

What the _actual_ fuck? Can nothing be simple?

"You shouldn't be pushing her like this," Alec scolds, reaching for Merlynn with a worried look.

"Somebody has to," Ella snaps. "We need to know what she knows."

"It can wait," he argues.

"No, it can't! She's been trying to give me a message and I'm not going to let you stop me from-"

"Messages," Merlynn whispers.

Alec and Ella both turn to stare at her; the room full of people beyond is utterly silent, watching with bated breath.

"What?"

Merlynn turns watery eyes up to Ella. "I've been trying to send you messages," she explains wearily. "Not just now, but before…I've been _trying_ …I didn't know he knew about you, but once I learned what he was planning, I had to tell you."

Ella stares.

And then Tony speaks tersely, a rumble beneath his words. "It was you," he accuses, glaring at Merlynn with vibrant verdant eyes. "Thought your scent was familiar and not just because of Alec. It's your magic - I've caught that scent before."

Ella looks up at him, silently voicing her confusion at the ire creeping along their bond.

"Nightmares," he says simply.

Nightmares. _Ella's_ nightmares? But what would that have to do with-

 _"She's coming_ ," said the imp.

Ella turns her most fearsome scowl onto Merlynn. " _You_ sent the imp after me?" she demands and ignores the gasps that spread through the room.

Merlynn flinches minutely. "Yes," she whispers, aggrieved and regretful. "Under orders, I summoned and controlled the creature, but I thought I could use the imp to try and send a message through your dreams. A warning…"

Ella snorts, rapping her fingers against her knees in agitation. "Well, you _did_ send a message, that's for sure. Kind of seemed more like a threat, but I guess when you use an _imp_ as a courier, that should be expected."

"It was an…imperfect solution," Merlynn says.

Well, obviously.

"What was the warning even for?" Ella challenges. "The hunters?"

Merlynn shakes her head. "No, I had just learned about a migration of -"

" _Pixies_ ," Ella hisses, cutting her off and standing abruptly to begin pacing a tight circle around the room.

"Yes," Merlynn says, a little bewildered, following Ella with her eyes. She continues hesitantly, "I wasn't in any position to communicate otherwise, so I had to get creative."

"Oh, my God. The understatement thing is _genetic_ ," Peter mutters from behind them, openly horrified.

Ella shoots him a mild glare. "Not the time, Pete."

 _Really_ not the time.

Because _fuck_ , if Merlynn sent the imp to her as a goddamn _warning_ about The Order sending pixies to Charmstone, then what does that say about all the other shit that happens in this town? How much of it has been orchestrated without anyone realizing it?

Ella had always assumed that she was kind of the cause for the uptick in activity in Charmstone. Not only is the town a hub for natural magic, which draws supernatural creatures to it and makes it the perfect home for all those creatures - but _Ella_ herself is a beacon because creatures will always be drawn to magicians. One way or another, supernatural creatures are drawn to huge masses of magic and if nothing else, that's exactly what Ella is.

And all this time, she's been feeling responsible because she'd been so sure it was _because of her_ that Charmstone kept going through all this shit.

Turns out she was right, just not for the reasons she thought.

Anger lances through her as she recalls the fact that, as a puppet, Merlynn had been collecting information about _Ella_. For the Overseer, whoever that is? Or genuinely for The Coterie?

"Are you _really_ the Deputy Director of The Coterie?" Ella demands suddenly, spinning on her heel with fire burning in her belly.

Everyone looks to her in surprise, except for Merlynn, who wilts a little helplessly. "I am and I'm not," she says, catching Ella's gaze. "The Coterie is separate from The Order of Mordred, but I didn't come to my position in the organization honestly. I was placed there so that The Order could use me through my position within The Coterie…"

Which probably at least half-explains why The Coterie is so damn useless.

It's like a goddamn conspiracy theory.

And Ella doesn't quite know what to do -

Her breath catches as alarm sirens through her familiar bond with Raven, along with a single word.

 _Fire_.

* * *

 **A/N: Whoops! It's all unraveling! Or really, I'm tying up loose plot ends. Both? It's definitely both.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	204. part 14: 12: judge, jury, executioner

**twelve**

 **judge, jury, sometimes executioner**

* * *

Fire.

So much fire - all around Charmstone, a massive circle around acres of land, all alight with flame burning just outside the wards around the town. Burning and burning closer, starting just far enough away that she hadn't felt the hunters spreading ash in a giant ring around the town until the first spark went off, catching Raven's attention and alerting Ella to the dire situation.

Borrowing Raven's vision, she can see the fire catching speed, licking around the town until the circle of flame closes, trapping thousands of people inside. The sight is nothing short of insidious and vindictive. It reminds Ella viscerally of paintings of _Dante's Inferno_. Charmstone has become the physical embodiment of the seventh circle of hell - and there is no way out. There isn't. The hunters, arrogant and clad in black leather, are all congregating near the town border, congratulating themselves for a job well done; and it is impressive that they had managed to lay a ring of manchineel ash around the town without anyone being the wiser, that they were able to start the flame and trap them all before anything could be done to prevent it.

Not even the anti-fire wards Ella has painstakingly carved around the Masen Pack territory will withstand that much toxic burning.

Ella's heart drops like a stone, her mind silent and frozen, eyes blinking rapidly as her eyesight shifts back to normal. She's in her loft, surrounded by friends and family, and her mate is standing in front of her, solemn and searching and saying her name to get her attention.

"Sweetheart, talk to me," Tony says softly, cupping the side of her neck while he ducks to meet her eyes. "You went somewhere for a second and now…What is it?"

For a moment, gut-wrenching despair fills her. Sorrow. God, but they're going to _die_. All of them. The entire town. Manchineel ash is so poisonous, so flammable, so imbued with magic that Ella hadn't been able to stop it before; now, the threat is scaled up from a single house to an entire _town_ and she doesn't see a way out -

Ella stills. The part of her mind that kept her alive when she was a street rat, that instinctual, nails-for-breakfast ruthlessness that is tethered to her very soul is rebooting her mind, which begins to race, ideas half-formed and discarded in the space of seconds.

This isn't hopeless, exactly. Hunters sent by The Order or not, whatever information they've gleaned about Ella is _wrong_. She'll never give up, not even if it kills her - and even then, with the way Magic itself has intervened on her behalf, she'd be willing to bet that even death wouldn't keep her down for long.

Sorrow is replaced by determination fed by righteous anger. Her spine is steel, her blood is boiling, and her magic is fervent. Ella knows exactly which gamble she is about to play. She can't afford to freeze. She can't afford to falter. She can't waste any more time. Every second is precious.

"Hunters are here and they have the whole town surrounded by manchineel ash," she announces briskly. She meets Tony's gaze, eyes hard like flint and glowing silver. "I'm going to deal with this," she tells him, leaving no room for argument.

"I'm going with you," he says in the same tone.

Fine. She didn't expect otherwise.

Ella steps around him, holding a hand out as she summons her knives from her room, tucking them into her boots even as she summons other useful things to her - patches from the store to protect from fire, to boost stamina, to bolster energy. As she does so, she can hear Tony addressing the rest of the room.

"Contingency C," he says curtly, and there is a flurry of activity in response.

Contingency C is one of those plans she and Tony had made with the rest of the town council when Ella was suffering from a more extreme bout of acute stress. Paranoia and hypervigilance had prompted her to create several fail-safe plans in the event that the town had a crisis. Contingency A was used when Seth opened that shadow dimension. Contingency C is for town-wide evacuation and involves faeries opening portals to get people to safety while ghouls and hedge-witches altered the memories of any ignorant or panicking humans. Every one of The Goodfellows has a role to play; Bree and Peter will be dealing with the werewolves directly, Emet, being a distant cousin of the faeries, and Lillian will contact Aro and Sulpicia to begin opening portals, Jasper and Alice will issue the town-wide alert, and Jane, Riley, and Mickie will be working wherever they are needed to get everyone out of Charmstone once Ella gives the signal.

 _If_ Ella gives the signal. There's always a chance, however slim, that it won't be necessary to complete Contingency C. But just in case, its good to have the plan already in the works, especially given the dire nature of manchineel ash.

And speaking of -

Ella lifts the hem of Tony shirt, slapping patches along the line of his side, pressing her palm over them with magic to activate them. Manchineel ash is particularly deadly to werewolves and, without having any access to a supply, Ella has been unable to create a solution to protect him from the harmful effects of breathing in the manchineel smoke. His lungs are going to burn. "Keep your distance unless you absolutely can't," she tells him sternly.

Tony grimaces. "Ella, you know I can't do that-"

"I will _not_ lose you to the ash of some stupid tree," she bites out. "I can take care of myself."

Tony clenches his jaw. "Not making any promises."

Ella huffs. "Don't be stupid."

"I won't if you won't," he counters quickly.

"Deal," she says with a roll of her eyes.

How much time has passed? A minute or two since she tapped into Raven's vision? Ella runs down a mental check-list, straining to think of anything that might be useful to have on hand, searching for anything that needs to be done that isn't already being done.

No. They've done everything. It's time to-

"You kill them and you stain your soul," Alec warns abruptly, just as Ella is reaching for Tony's hand. He looks genuinely distressed at the very real possibility of Ella doing just that, as if it is the worst possible thing that could ever happen.

Doesn't tame her annoyance at _yet another_ insistence that Ella play by some morally-abiding rules that have no place in the real world - in her world. Her head snaps to the side, lip curling away from her teeth. "It might have escaped your notice, but my soul is already stained and I don't think it can get much worse," she snaps.

Alec shakes his head. "No, it's vital that you remain balanced, Ella, or-"

For the first time since all the chaos started, Merlynn speaks up, her eyes shining. "A truly grey magician will do what needs to be done. There is no joy in killing, just as there is no joy in needlessly dying," she whispers, staring at Ella with a distraught expression. She looks guilty, too, but then, hadn't she known this was coming? She did try to warn Ella. "If you must kill, be swift and merciful."

Alec looks appalled. "How can you _say_ that? As a descendant of Merlin-"

Merlynn cuts him off, eyes gleaming gold. "As a descendant of Merlin, I must acknowledge that dreadful tasks are sometimes necessary for the greater good. It is what my father taught me and my sister."

By the look on Alec's face, that lesson is decidedly not one that Solomon deemed necessary for Alec to learn. Absently, Ella can only assume that is because Merlynn's supposed death and Renee's murder must have changed Solomon's mindset to become ridiculously passive, even to the point of willing martyrdom. Explains so much about Alec, really.

Ella lifts her chin and takes Tony's hand in hers. She pins Alec with an unwavering flat stare. "We live in a dangerous world. And in Charmstone, that means that I am the judge, the jury, and sometimes the executioner," she claims frankly. Then, looking to everyone else, she says, "If you don't get my signal in five minutes, get people the hell out of this town."

And with that, she and Tony _pop_ away.

* * *

 **A/N: Oh, Alec. And _oh_ , Merlynn? Different lessons based on Solomon's evolving philosophy - so who is more true to Merlin's doctrine? After all, we know that Merlin didn't have a problem dabbling and that Merlin is directly responsible for creating some shapeshifters, like werewolves. Wonder what Morgan le Fay was responsible for creating? And what about Mordred? **

**Anyway, I was going to post the rest of this chapter - however, writing the second half, I noticed how...emotionally taxing it will be, so I cut it off here. Cheers.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	205. part 14: 13: into the fire

**thirteen**

 **into the fire**

* * *

Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Literally.

When Ella and Tony _pop_ out to the edge of town - inside the town border and Charmstone's wards - the flame from the manchineel ash is already crawling up the side of the wards, like some twisted version of blazing ivy. Her first thought is that the wards are weakening and that it won't be too long before the manchineel ash breaks through and really begins to ravage the town. Her second thought is that people need to be evacuated sooner rather than later. Her third thought, however, is directed toward the hunters leering at them from the opposite side of the ward, keeping their distance from the fire that burns almost out of control.

Ella wants to kill them. They _deserve_ it, don't they? After everything they've done, all the lives they've taken, all the families they've left broken? They deserve to die for what they have done to Ben Masen alone, leaving him an orphan just like Ella. They deserve it for how they've scarred Tony, leaving him forever weary of fire. They deserve it for taking the lives of innocent werewolves. They deserve it for perverting the role of protectors, twisting it with hatred and scorn.

They deserve to die for working with The Order of Mordred, who have wreaked destruction to two entire bloodlines - for no discernable reason other than a grudge reaching back thousands of years, as far as Ella can tell.

Rage burns through her veins as she catches sight of Mallory, his face tinted yellow-orange from the firelight, a vicious expression of satisfaction on his weather-worn face.

 _Ella hates him_.

But Mallory isn't her priority.

She has to do something about the fire. She has to figure out how to put out a fire that feeds on magic and that, she recalls, only burns itself out in time. There's so much of it surrounding the entire town that she isn't sure it's even possible to isolate the fire at all, let alone douse it.

Charmstone _really_ needs to evacuate sooner rather than later. There's time to get everyone out, but not a lot of it. Manchineel fire is particularly hungry, a voracious sort of appetite that digests everything in its wake.

"We don't have a lot of options," she mutters out loud. Her voice isn't loud over the dull roar of the fire and her eyes are adjusting to the darkening twilight, the sky indigo and dotted with stars beyond the dark outlines of trees, many of which have already been consumed by the fire.

Still, through their bond, she can sense Tony's ironclad determination, the intense focus that makes him so utterly formidable. He says, "I'll distract them, you take care of the fire."

Her fingers lock around his hand. If he had been human, she might have left a bruise or fractured one of the bones in his hand with the strength of her grip. As it is, Tony doesn't even have the grace to flinch as he turns to look down at her, the shift already broadening the bones in his face. "You can't distract them alone," she insists, knowing better than to suggest he can't distract them at all.

"Don't worry about me," he says reassuringly with a fleeting kiss to her forehead. Then he untangles their fingers and stalks right up to the fire, looking back at her with a raised brow, a silent prod for her to help him through the barrier of fire.

Ella wants to scream at Tony. Is he _serious_? This is the exact kind of harebrained, idiotic stunt of bravery that he berates her for engaging in time and again. And now he wants a turn? She should curse him.

But - they are partners in all things, including this. And even if Ella did protest, she knows its futile. Tony's idea to distract the hunters while she takes on the bigger issue is the best chance they have and probably the best plan either of them could come up with, really.

It doesn't mean she has to like it, though. Disgruntled, Ella flicks her hand at Tony, teleporting him across the manchineel fire and face-to-face with the hunters without a problem. It takes a shocking amount of self-restraint not to follow him and she pointedly tunes out the jeers of the hunters once Tony is facing them.

She doesn't listen to their taunts or the way they call her _the beast_ or the way they call Tony a _dog_.

She ignores the cocks of guns and Tony's returning growls, the sound of grunts of pain that can be heard if she lets herself.

Ella is confident in her mate's abilities. He's a good fighter, quick and smart and lethal when he wants to be. He's an alpha, more powerful than other werewolves, and bonded to a magician, which she is certain must benefit him in some way. He doesn't take unnecessary risks. She trusts in his ability to survive.

She has to.

Resolute, Ella stretches her magic out, feeling along the manchineel fire, tasting the magic infused in the manchineel ash that makes the fire that much more deadly. Although the hunters and Tony cough at exposure to the manchineel ash smoke, it doesn't bother Ella overmuch and she is able to see and breathe just fine.

She knows from experience that the ash barrier is unbreakable and cannot be crossed, except by teleportation. She also knows that casting magic at it, trying to overpower the fire, does nothing but make it burn hotter.

Ella doesn't have a lot of time to play around with how to put the fire out. She conjures water from the evaporating vapor in the air, frowning when water makes little impact except to, once again, make the fire burn hotter. This fire doesn't behave like normal fire - actually, it behaves almost like a grease fire. Water makes it worse. Or is it because that particular water was seasoned with her magic? It isn't like Ella can just pop down to the store for some bottles of water to test that theory.

Water is out. Moving on.

How is a grease fire put out? Smother it.

She turns the idea over in her head. Can she deprive _all_ of this manchineel fire of oxygen and how would she even do that in the first place? A secondary ward of some kind? That would take time, but it is possible. Maybe, if she weren't so worried about all the goddamn _gunshots_ that are going off on the other side of the barrier she would be able to give this a try.

As it is, the more that time passes, the more desperate Ella feels, caught between being infuriated that this is happening and struggling not to let herself be distracted by the occasional brief flare of pain she can feel from Tony.

This is taking too long. She needs a solution. She needs -

 _Perhaps the ley lines can absorb the magic from the ash, and then you can put the fire out normally,_ Raven suggests from somewhere high over Ella's head.

It's a brilliant solution.

Immediately, Ella kneels and presses her hands to the ground, uncaring of the scrape of gravel and dirt against her palms. This is harder given how far she is from any of Charmstone's three ley line convergences, but she isn't about to let something as negligible as difficulty stop her. Ella pours her magic into the nearest ley line, coaxing it to respond to her will. She can feel the resistance in the earth beneath her hands, the unwillingness the natural magical currents have to absorb any of the tainted power riddled within the manchineel ash. But she can cleanse that out of the ley lines later, just like she'd done after Seth and after the hag. And with that intention clear in her mind, the ley lines begin to leech the magic out of the ash, a slow sort of progress that requires Ella's absolute attention.

It's working, though. And it's almost fully complete when an acid-burn wave of pain _twangs_ right through Tony's side of the mating bond -

Ella pulls back abruptly, hands skimming over the ground as her head whips around, searching for her mate through the fire. She can only catch a glimpse of him, but he's laying down, clutching at his stomach, his face twisted in a deep grimace of pain. She knows without really knowing that he's been shot with wolfsbane - it's the kind of instant share of knowledge that all mates have and Tony _knows_ what it feels like to be poisoned by a hunter's bullet.

Only this bullet came from a hybrid shotgun and Tony's torso is littered with pellets alongside the gaping hole just below his ribs.

And he's bleeding faster than he'll be able to keep up with, which means that he's not healing.

Which means that he's _hurt_ and _dying_ and oh, God, her Tony is _dying_ -

Her ears are filled with white noise as she stands, anger and desperation giving way to a cold fury that leaves her heartbeat steady and her mind profoundly still. Her thoughts are clear. She knows exactly what she must do and she does not hesitate to do it.

Later, she will realize that her bronzed skin had taken on a subtle glow, like moonlight was in her veins rather than blood and magic. Later, she'll remember that her magician's glass burned something fierce around her wrists, noticeably uncomfortable as the bracelets and rings tried to keep a lid on her power. Later, she'll look back on these moments with a dazed sort of remembrance, as if it all happened to someone else.

But that's later.

Now, Ella is standing and walking right through a barrier of fire, enough of the dark magic removed from the ash that it bends easily to her will. She keeps a steady pace, expression placid and eyes glazed as she walks toward the hunters and their guns. Her arms are held out to the side and behind her, the fire shifts as she calls it to her - summoning fire from the other side of the town and dragging every ounce of manchineel ash along with it until she is stood before a backdrop of flame and grainy ash.

The hunters stumble away. They say awful, hurtful things, but there is naked fear in their eyes.

Ella breathes out.

The earth trembles and the wards around Charmstone _break_.

And swinging her hands forward, her eyes a blinding silver, the world responds to her will. The manchineel ash and the fire that burns from it surround the hunters, boxing them tightly inside a narrow ring of ash and flame - and over it, a protective dome of magic over all those flames, keeping it all locked up tight.

The hunters _scream_ and they die in agony, unable to escape like so many before them.

The wards keeping the flames restricted do their job, effectively preventing any oxygen from feeding the fire and smothering it over the course of several long, bleakly silent moments. And when she can no longer see the lifelines of the hunters, Ella turns her back to the charred remains.

She kneels beside Tony and her heart feels like its shattering inside her chest when he smiles at her, oddly brittle and covered in blood and so beautiful it hurts, even as black poison from the wolfsbane bullets crawl up inside his veins. He looks like he wants to say something, but then he coughs up blood, his hands falling away from the stark gore of his stomach and torso.

He isn't healing the way he should, of course. She already knew that. Doesn't make her want to scream any less. Her mate, so strong and competent, had held his own against almost a dozen hunters long enough for Ella to figure out how to deal with the ash.

She'll be damned if that act of bravery costs him his life.

"You don't get to leave me," she tells him fiercely, furiously.

Still alight with that inner glow of magic, she presses sure hands against her mate's body - drawing away the wolfsbane poison, mending the flesh, fixing the fractures and bruises and aches. As she works, one by one, tiny balls of metal and various bullets push their way out of his body, leaving behind tiny puckered scars of flesh that will probably always remain.

Ella sags forward when she has finished healing him, his lifeline vital with her magic and a renewed surge of life.

Tony raises his hand, cupping her cheek, rubbing a thumb over the arch of her cheekbone. "Sorry I worried you," he murmurs tiredly, his tone mild.

Ella frowns. "I'm not worried. I'm _mad_ ," she declares sullenly.

Tony smirks. "I love you, too."

Ella rolls her eyes, and as she does, her gaze snags on the dying embers of the manchineel fire isolated beneath the wards.

And she finds herself wondering how _exactly_ did she manage to do what she did?

And how long will it be before The Order and the Overseer learn about the timely demise of the hunters?

* * *

 **A/N: And that's a wrap on this arc! Stay tuned for interludes!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	206. part 14: interlude

**interlude**

* * *

Victoria - _no, Merlynn, she is Merlynn now, her eyes are open after twenty years and she is_ Merlynn - is in a near-constant state of stupefaction. The world is much different than it was the last time she'd been fully aware of herself. New technology and social change aside, Merlynn seems to have entered an upside down wonderland where she has a little brother half her age and where the ghost of her sister lives in the face of her niece. And then there is the jarring realization that she is _old_ ; not wrinkled and aged by the virtue of being a magician, but certainly less youthful than the last time she properly saw herself.

Merlynn has missed so much, lost in the fog of the darkest of curses, possessed by a will not her own and seldom with the authority of her own mind. It is overwhelming to finally be free - almost as overwhelming as _freedom_ is, as it is a concept that she had long forgotten except in the most dire of circumstances. She thinks that perhaps the desire to break through the harrowing bonds of magic that kept her subjugated was inspired by the not-quite-same-face of a loved one long dead. Had she not seen the daughter of her sister, Merlynn thinks it very unlikely that she would have found that kernel of strength to fight back against the spells holding her hostage.

The past twenty years are, at best, a series of foggy recollections. It pains her mind to even try to reach though that intangible mist and she cringes against the notion of reliving any of her silent, magically gagged suffering. The last clear memory she has from _before_ is of a heavily pregnant Renee comforting Merlynn through the traumatic aftermath of her ill-fated relationship with _him_. And after that, all else is murky.

She might as well have amnesia.

She'd rather have amnesia.

She is not the same person she once was, but she thinks the same can be said for both of her surviving relations.

Alec is a marvel to her. The half-Japanese young man with eyes like her own is strangely, even absurdly, naïve. It doesn't take long at all for Merlynn to realize that Alec has been reared much differently than either herself or Renee. Her father might well have lost his mind after the death of his daughters if Alec's headstrong loyalty to passivity is anything to judge by. It is very unlike how Solomon raised Merlynn and Renee.

All her life, Merlynn was taught that her namesake embodied the purest form of magic - the intent of goodwill and the desire to _create_ and protect - and as a descendant of the great Merlin, she had a fastidious dream to mirror the accomplishments of her forefather. Merlynn believed in helping people, even at the cost of herself, so long as everything settled to _rights_. Renee was the same way, as was Solomon.

Alec, however, has been raised with a different doctrine. She doesn't understand his hesitancy to use his magical gifts to protect and serve those around him and she cannot comprehend his extreme reluctance to _stain his soul_. By Alec's estimation, wielding light magic is akin to an almost Gandhi-like passiveness. For this, Merlynn blames her father, and even aside from the goal of her own recovery, she determines that she will strive to correct Solomon's teachings. Her young brother will learn the ways of Merlin if she has anything to say about it.

Yes, for Alec, she knows what she must do. What she is obligated to do before he has the chance to pass along the wrong kind of ideas to the next generation of the Merlin bloodline.

For Isobela, however, Merlynn is at a loss.

Isobela - Ella - is a revelation. At first, Merlynn had been consumed with how much Ella resembles Renee, all deeply bronzed skin and tumbling dark waves and hair, even the tenor of their voices being remarkably similar. There are shadows of Renee's husband in the girl as well, in the delicate European structure of her face and the natural downward turn of her lips. Merlynn looks at Ella and sees the fruit of all the years she has lost and all of the faces of the people she once loved. But then, the longer Merlynn stays in Ella's company, the more Merlynn looks at Ella and sees a creature of tragedy, jaded and sharp-minded and positively lethal.

The first thing she notices are the scars. Merlynn, for all that her memory is unreliable, is not uneducated and she knows exactly what those silvery scars embedded in Ella's skin mean. She can guess how painful it must have been to have such sigils carved into her skin. She imagines that the process was not one that Ella volunteered for and her heart aches at what horrors her niece must have suffered.

The second thing she notices is Ella's magician's glass. As a representation of a magician's very soul, it is disturbing to see the form which Ella's glass has taken - several pieces of circular glass spread along both hands, a result that Merlynn can only surmise came from enough strife that Ella's very soul had shattered at some point. The very thought makes her queasy. Merlynn makes a point to never look too long at Ella's magician's glass, lest she begin to wonder what her own would now look like after all these years.

The third thing she notices, naturally, is Ella's magical aura. The girl is stunningly strong, though that is to be expected as the product of two magician bloodlines. More surprisingly is how neutrally balanced Ella's magic is. Merlynn assumed that Ella would have taken more after Renee's light magic, but it seems that her magic is skewed toward the le Fay bloodline and that - well, that makes Merlynn a bit nervous. She doesn't know much about grey magic, but from what she has seen of Ella, she can guess that whatever nature grey magic might have, _Ella_ uses hers for a higher purpose more often than not, and that is a comfort.

All of these things that Merlynn has noticed pales in light of what Ella is truly like. The girl is pragmatic and blunt, jaded with a sarcastic wit, and an unflappable presence that demands recognition. Ella is intimidating; she seems as transcendent as a phoenix, continually rising from the ashes. When Ella sits across from Merlynn on the other side of the loft's kitchen table, Merlynn subconsciously straightens up, alert and suitably weary of the flinty glint in Ella's opal-grey eyes.

She is not disappointed by Ella's request.

"Tell me what you know about the Overseer," she demands, just this side of polite.

Merlynn flinches, an ache in her head. "I can't recall much," she warns apologetically.

Ella is unmoved. "Try."

Merlynn swallows. "The Overseer…I don't know much of what he is or what he wants now," she whispers. A feeling of shame washes over her and she drops her eyes, staring at her clasped hands. "But I can tell you of who I remember him to be. I can tell you about the man I once foolishly loved."

And so Merlynn tells her niece of the man as she knew him from _before_ , her lover-turned-abuser, the man who courts death for power and the desire to rule above all, the man who calls himself the Overseer.

James, descendant of the dark magician Mordred.

* * *

 **A/N: Who saw _that one_ coming? **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	207. part 14: interlude interlude

**interlude**

* * *

Muted by his thunderous shout of rage, the table overturns with a crash of shattered glasses and plates. Sneering, he backhands the meek creature who serves him and demands that his evening meal be brought once again. The child scuttles off, flaming red curls billowing behind her as she dodges the continued vexation that he releases in the form of callous destruction.

There are two other figures in the room and although they flinch at the crackle of his dark magic bursting against the confines of the space, they do not retreat from him, as expected from any of the highest ranks of The Order. As expected of any family he has, no matter how distant the relation. His cousins, while never daring to be as powerful as he, are formidable forces in their own right.

"Calm yourself, cousin," Laurent cajoles, only to then cry out in pain as that dark magic is turned on him in a wordless spell of torture.

 _"Calm_?" James repeats viciously, his lip curling into a frightful grimace. "I do not calm for anyone, let alone someone as weak and worthless as _you_! I am the Overseer - I am your _God_ \- and I am not pleased!"

On the floor, Laurent twitches in pain and makes no reply; he's likely bitten his tongue once again and is swallowing blood to save himself from choking. Pitiful. James swiftly puts Laurent out of his mind, where he belongs if he is not making himself useful.

Ever quiet, a deeper voice then speaks. "All is not lost. Our plans - your plans - are recoverable. We will surely all get what we desire," Ephraim reasons, likely speaking of his wayward son. Foolish that a son of Mordred would be so motivated by such weak attachments, but James cannot deny that Ephraim's cool head can be immensely useful.

And though he sees Ephraim's reasoning, James still grunts and turns away in dissatisfaction.

His hunters are dead, which while not quite unexpected, is wholly unacceptable. Worse yet is the fact that his Victoria has mysteriously been freed from all of his enchantments and is now _free_ of him, which is intolerable. That is _two_ pawns removed from the chessboard that James was not quite finished with - and that they had been removed by same girl who had been steadily taking out all of his other pawns is _infuriating_.

Does she dare think herself as smart as him? As powerful? Does she _dare_ think that her life isn't already forfeit for how she has thwarted his plans?

He hopes she dares. It is evermore satisfying to see hope vanish along with the last breath in a body. It is in fact the only sight that brings him joy. And the only thought that does anything to soothe his ire, for he vows that the girl who derailed his plans will one day be both quite hopeless and dead.

A shuffle of small feet and the savory waft of his dinner alert him that the firebrand child has returned. He watches as she approaches, her head cast down as she silently uses magic to set the table to rights and clear the mess he'd made from the floor before she sets a silver tray directly in the center of the table. She pauses after her task is complete, surely sensing his eyes on her, and hesitantly raises her eyes - dark gold, almost ocher. There is a blooming bruise on the side of her pale, freckled face and she cringes slightly when he grips her chin tightly, forcing her to look at him.

James leans down, a sinisterly soft smile spreading across his face. "Don't worry, child. Your mother will be returned to us shortly - or rather, you should hope she does."

"I will be good, Father, and wait for Mother's return," she whispers, a promise punctuated by a fleeting glance around the room.

James stares at the child impassively, fingers tightening around her chin. "Remember that all I do is to protect you, my daughter."

Maggie whimpers.

Ah, right.

He always forgets that the child can sense lies.

Pity, that.

* * *

 **A/N: A peek at our Overseer's twisted little mind. He's a piece of work. And then there's the _other_ things here...Gotta love those family ties, right?**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	208. part 14: interlude interlude interlude

**interlude**

* * *

Anthony doesn't startle when a low _pop_ sounds through his dorm room, delivering to him a fleeting glimpse of his mate as she appears from elsewhere, her expression taut and her emotions a dizzying tumult. He knows - because she told him - that she has spent the afternoon talking to her Aunt Merlynn and throughout all that time, Anthony has been on the receiving end of various mood swings, most of them edged with bitterness and frustration.

He watches covertly as Ella immediately begins to strip in the middle of his room, dropping clothes at her feet and stomping to his closet fully nude to retrieve a shirt of his that swallows her whole. Her lack of modesty is striking; he holds close the truth that she is like this only for _him_ , that he is the only one that she has ever truly given herself to, completely and without reservation. That knowledge makes biting his tongue against his curiosity so much easier. Even as Ella tucks herself against his side, cold toes pressing against his calves, thin fingers pulling his duvet high over her shoulders, Anthony continues reading for his coursework. He remains silent, slipping his arm around her as he flips the pages, and waits.

His Ella is a complicated creature, he knows. So bold, but also so vulnerable; emotionally reserved and frequently out of touch with what people actually expect of her. She places so much on herself, a product of her upbringing where her child self tried so desperately to be perfect, to be _wanted_ , until she became so jaded and put all that ice around her heart. Ice that is still thawing, teased by the molten depth of how much she _cares_ , even if she doesn't let herself acknowledge it often.

He knows his mate - understands her probably better than she understands herself.

And so he waits, ever patient, and he reads. Because that's what she needs right now.

Nearly an hour later, the buzz of her emotions finally settles into some semblance of normalcy. "It's all so fucked up," she mumbles against his chest.

Anthony sets his book aside, combing her dark hair behind her ear with the tips of his fingers. "What is?"

"Just - everything. Merlynn is…she barely remembers anything and what she does remember is probably just because the spells she was under were weakening and needed to be cast again and even then, the times she was trying to break through to talk to me were just because she recognized my face - I look like my mother, you know - and it sparked _something_ in her that made her want to fight back. But now all of that is…lost again, I guess," Ella rambles, curling her fingers tightly around the covers. She closes her eyes with a sigh. "And her _story_ is…It makes me so angry and sick to even think about it, you know? She was young and stupid and in love with exactly the wrong kind of man and, I mean, I don't think that she really sees it, but the guy she fell in love with was _grooming_ her. He specifically chose her for a reason and manipulated everything in his favor. And now here she is, missing twenty years of her _life_ , and its like she's still twenty-five in her head, even though she's not…"

Anthony processes this, wondering when all the details that Ella glosses over will be spoken, knowing that she's still processing it herself. "Where is Merlynn now?"

"With Carlisle and Esme," Ella answers dully. "Best place I could think of, given the kinds of wards I already have around that house and…I mean, I don't know how to fix Merlynn's head, but maybe Dad does. He knows more than me, anyway."

Anthony hums noncommittally.

"She's so out of it," Ella murmurs, a knit in her brow, eyes unseeing. "She needs so much help and I don't think I'm exactly the best option. Her memory is all fucked and she probably should see a doctor and she absolutely refuses to cast any magic right now because she doesn't have a magician's glass. Which…I can help with that part, at least, and get the supplies she'll need to make a new one. But…"

His heart is warmed, because although she doesn't say it, he's very much aware that her primary motivation for helping Merlynn - for taking the responsibility to help her - is because Merlynn is _family_ , in a way. Another blood relation. And if he has learned anything about his Ella, it is that she places a lot of importance on family, almost as much importance as she places on trust.

He waits as she gathers her thoughts, stroking his thumb down the side of her cheek.

She looks up at him, grey eyes clouded with a hint of ire. "We're still as blind as we were before about what's coming. The Order and the Overseer…I may know _who_ he is, but not even Merlynn is entirely sure what he's after. What's the point of targeting _me_ specifically? Why is he sending henchmen out to hunt werewolves and other creatures? I don't understand any of it."

Anthony arches a brow. "Good think you don't understand it, because we can only handle one evil mastermind at a time."

Ella snorts indelicately, huffing out a little laugh that clears the banked agitation from her steady gaze. Anthony smiles back a little crookedly, admiring the dimples in her cheeks that always form with her seldom-seen humor.

"Happy with yourself, huh?" she asks with some mirth.

"Always happy to see you smile," he confesses honestly.

A faint blush rises in her cheeks. He'll never get over how she can be so fearless, how she can stare down crazed creatures and walk around naked completely unbothered - but the second there is any _tenderness_ , she doesn't know what to do and blushes for him so easily. A complicated creature, indeed.

And a vixen, because suddenly Anthony has a lapful of Ella and her lips are at his ear. "How happy do you get when I moan, then?" she challenges and heat spins up his spine.

Anthony rises to the bait, of course. How can he not, when it's exactly what his mate needs?

* * *

 **A/N: Pretty sure this is the last interlude for this arc!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	209. part 15: 1: tale as old as time

**PART FIFTEEN**

* * *

 **one**

 **tale as old as time**

* * *

She hadn't been exaggerating when she said the whole story is fucked up. The entire tale that Merlynn stuttered through calls to mind every warning kids learn about talking to strangers, every cautionary tale portrayed in media about dangerously charismatic boyfriends, and every instinct that Ella had buried after Duncan.

Merlynn had been young and by the virtue of being young, she'd been naïve. And James, being several years older and raised in a house drenched in black magic, had been cunning enough to take advantage of that. Everything that might have gone wrong did go wrong. He isolated her from her friends; he detested the reminder of her given name and only called her Victoria; he twisted the words of her father and her sister to make Merlynn see his point of view; he pressured her for intimacy and then for sex and made her feel guilty for denying him; he apologized after he yelled, he gave her flowers after he bruised, and he made her question her own mind.

Merlynn had been fifteen when she met James and, as she tells it, James had _looked_ only a bit older, barely into his twenties with golden hair, deep, dark blue eyes, and a rakish grin. He'd been the answer to a young girl's rebellion. He'd been the greatest mistake Merlynn had ever made.

Merlynn had cried as she told the story of her relationship with James - the beginning of it, at least, and all the little parts she could recall. Filled with regret, Merlynn had recounted all the ways James _changed_ and then she tearfully admitted to her own foolishness, thinking that she could _fix_ James, thinking that the differences between his dark magic and her light magic didn't matter.

"Maybe if it had been anyone else, our different magics wouldn't have mattered," Merlynn conceded, expression lost and dazed.

Ella had heard what Merlynn didn't say.

James' dark magic mattered _because James was pitch dark himself_. Evil, even.

Having known Black for going on two years now, Ella probably knows better than most that magical inclination toward the dark is a course of nature - for Black, having dark magic certainly doesn't _curse_ him to be evil. Privately, Ella can realize that it isn't James' dark magic that had made him so twisted - no, James' abuse and sadism and manipulation are all unique to him and _that_ is what makes him so dangerous. The addition of dark magic is nothing more than information that is useful for strategy, just as it is also useful to know that James had joined the lower ranks of The Order sometime after first meeting Merlynn and, over the course of their relationship, had fought his way to the highest positions. This, of course, gives Ella some insight into how The Order of Mordred operates; it is an old organization that had been mostly dormant until James' involvement, after which their operations grew more violent.

Evidently, it had been James' influence that prompted The Order into renewing the hunts for the bloodlines of Merlin and Morgan le Fay. And that - _that_ is an important detail.

Also important is the way Merlynn described James' quirks - the strangely formal way he spoke sometimes, the way he didn't seem to age at all until Merlynn had turned twenty, the way he sneered at popular culture. All of that strikes Ella has odd, because by all accounts, James _should_ have been raised during the same time as Carlisle and even Carlisle hadn't been immune to the culture of the 1980's. If Ella didn't know any better, she would have thought that Merlynn was hinting James was from another time altogether.

But knowing all of this doesn't exactly give Ella the insight she's searching for. It's fine and good to know her enemy and all that, but mostly she wants to know _why_ James is her enemy. What is he after, exactly? How does it all tie together with the image of the man that Merlynn describes? And what does it mean that he refers to himself as the Overseer? Is that ego, or is it something else?

Her only source for answering any of these questions is a woman whose recent memory riddled is in gaps. Merlynn recalls very little from the last twenty years - it's like everything just _stopped_ after Ella became an orphan and got lost in the human foster system, her magic bound by Renee hiding her well enough for the next fifteen years. That seems significant too, somehow.

Ella just doesn't know how. Yet.

But the fact of the matter is that even if she wanted to, Ella has no way of knowing where The Order and James the Overseer are holed up at the moment. She can't exactly storm The Order and wipe them out without knowing where they are or how many of them are waiting there, can she? The only thing she can do is stay in Charmstone like a sitting duck and wait for The Order to come to her, which is _frustrating_ to say the least.

Basically, she's buried up to her eyeballs in unanswered questions - and there isn't any way to -

Wait.

Ella sits up abruptly, hastily pushing away the sheets that fall loosely around her naked torso. Her mind is racing as she springs up from Tony's bed, grasping at a discarded shirt of his after she pulls up her jeans and stuffs her feet into her boots, knives tucked beside her ankles. Hair wild, she magically etches a hurried silver note for Tony to find when he returns from his class, and then she _pops_ right out of his dorm and into the middle of _The Magic Shop_ , scaring the shit out of one of her regular customers.

Behind the counter, Jane looks torn between apologizing to the woman and verbally voicing her curiosity at Ella's uncharacteristically overt appearance, as usually Ella does try to be mindful of where she lands when she teleports. But Ella is in too much of a hurry to spare Jane anything other than a passing glance as she trots down to the basement - a place that is steeped in too much magic for Ella to safely teleport directly - and makes a beeline for the collection of not-so-safe books that Ella keeps stored away from the general public. These are still the hag's books and while part of Ella is absolutely cringing in revulsion at having to _touch_ anything of the hag's, it's more important that Ella find the book that's niggling at the back of her mind.

 _The cover is green_ , Raven inserts helpfully through their link.

 _I know what color the damn book is_ , Ella returns with a huff, spelling away the cloud of dust that comes when she opens a cardboard box.

 _The spell you're looking for is mid-way through_ , Raven adds, unperturbed as ever by Ella's snappish mood.

Ella doesn't bother responding, as her fingers have closed around tightly-stretched leather. She removes the book from the box, quickly flipping through yellowed pages, and alights on the errant spell she'd been thinking of with a quietly victorious, _"Hell yes."_

It's the memory spell, a sister of the one she'd threatened to botch with Tony back in the time loop, which is in the same book she holds in her hands. While the spell she'd use to taunt her younger mate with was designed to remove memories _, this_ spell did much the opposite as it is meant to be the fixer spell for the first. One to take memory away and one to restore memory.

Ella licks her lips, mind tracking along her thoughts almost rabidly.

Obviously, this spell can't be anything more than a useful outline as it's meant to be a counter to a specific memory spell and Ella has no way of knowing the exact spell that tampered Merlynn's memory. By using that quartz crystal to remove all those spells from Merlynn in the first place, it's more likely than not that Merlynn's mind is incredibly fragile at the moment. Ella can't risk doing more damage by using the wrong spell.

But if she could create a new spell, one tailored to Merlynn's exact needs, then there's every chance that Ella can get the answers she desperately needs to go head-to-head with James.

 _You might want to use citrine,_ Raven intones lightly.

Citrine. A gemstone sometimes used to amplify memory, as well as give foresight. A stone that just so happens to be sitting innocently on Ella's workbench, one of the leftover rejects from her mission to amplify Alice's banshee abilities.

Ella takes two steps, gingerly grasps the citrine, and then marches back up the basement steps with the book and crystal hugged to her chest. The customer is long gone and Jane is staring at her with wide eyes.

"Ella? Is everything okay? What's going on?"

Ella's lips twitch into a sly sort of grin. "Everything is going to be fine," she says to Jane, a statement just shy of a promise.

She just has to fix Merlynn's memory first.

* * *

 **A/N: Welcome to the (probably) final part of this story! Oh man, I'm so jazzed for this, you have no idea. This story is one hell of a monster and _look at how much Ella has grown!_ Ah, I'm so proud.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	210. part 15: 2: a march to remember

**two**

 **a march to remember**

* * *

Trial and error proves that Merlynn does not respond favorably to Ella's magic; balanced though Ella's neutral magic might be, the darkness that taints it grey is uncomfortably close to the same tinge of darkness that had kept Merlynn subjugated for twenty years. And while failure isn't an option, if Ella has the choice between causing pain and _not_ causing pain, she likes to think she tends to the latter when she can. And all _that_ really means is that the next-best bet for restoring Merlynn's memory is to rope Alec into the plan, since he should have both enough power and magic light enough to accomplish the task.

An unanticipated side effect of this decision is - naturally - the awkward song-and-dance of reunited long-lost siblings. Ella only supervises the first time Alec uses the citrine and a cobbled spell to coax Merlynn's lost memories and, honestly, it's awkward enough that she struggled not to cringe. She gets it, kind of. For Alec, his sister is a balm for the family he has lost and the family he hasn't quite found in her; for Merlynn, her brother is a strange interloper with magic that feels _right_ but with a face that is unfamiliar. After the first time, Ella makes a point to _not_ be at the daily sessions and lets Raven observe in her place, trusting that her familiar will report back any useful information about Merlynn's lost years.

The process is slow-going. It makes her antsy, having to wait for information, having to gamble like this. Sometimes, the anticipation winds up the muscles in her neck so tightly that she's sore the next day, head aching under the strain of trying to anticipate every worst-case scenario. Because if she can't get specific information, she can at least beef up the contingency plans and fine-tune the ley lines and carve endless sigils into trees and earth and stone.

She thinks all the waiting is finally getting to everyone else, too.

Tony has taken to coordinating patrols between his own pack and the larger Masen pack, even going so far as to tap Emet as a second pair of eyes. Lillian and Jasper are working their own sources of intelligence, with Lillian spending more time down at the police station and Jasper practically glued to a sleek little tablet he's begun carrying around with him. And she's seen Alice pressing her kyanite between her palms, face screwed in concentration, more than once, as if she can _make_ The Whispers give her another riddle, another clue, another warning.

This is how February shifts into March.

And then, seemingly with no apparent connection, two things happen simultaneously.

First, Ella hears word from Raven that Alec's bastardized magical cognitive therapy has finally won a worthwhile prize from the depths of Merlynn's mind. Merlynn has remembered something of significance and Ella feels a thrill of excitement.

 _Does she know what The Order is planning_?

Raven is discomfited by Ella's eagerness and, quite for the first time, hesitates in her answer. _No_ , she responds finally.

Ella's excitement ebbs. _Oh._

 _Merlynn recalls something much more significant._

Ella's brows furrow and she pauses in the construction of one of _The Magic Shop's_ products down in her workshop. She sets aside a thin chisel in favor of a tiny paint brush and asks, _Oh yeah?_

 _She has remembered a pregnancy - her own, as a matter of fact. She is…inconsolable._

Confusion twists with shock as Ella struggles to reconcile _this_ bit of news -

But she doesn't have much of a chance before her phone is chiming with an alert from The Goodfellows app, quickly followed by a series of chirps denoting text messages. Ella huffs, reaching for her phone and tapping at the screen, seeing that Jasper has sent her three rapid-fire messages, each of them more concerning than the last.

 _i think we have an issue_

 _check the app - immediately_

 _morgues missing bodies in boston_

Ella's stomach swoops in alarm and, as she opens the app to skim over the information that Jasper is continuing to upload, dread spreads from the base of her spine to the tips of her fingers.

Looks like the time for waiting is over.

* * *

 **A/N: Yes, I have cooked up something particularly grim and _I am so excited you don't even know_.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	211. part 15: 3: monster of the week

**three**

 **monster of the week**

* * *

Jasper's dorm room hasn't changed much since the last time Ella had paid a visit. Marijuana smoke still hangs thick in the air, but there is some evidence that Alice's neatness has begun to rub off on Jasper, mostly found in the fact that all of his dirty laundry has found its way into the hamper. Still, the room is as dark as ever, illuminated only by the blue wash of computer monitors, which Jasper sits in front of as his fingers fly over the clacking keyboard, brow tight in concentration.

Ella has been reading over his shoulder for the past ten minutes, both of them ignoring the various arrivals of whoever of their group was already on campus. At some point, Tony has joined her on Jasper's other wise, his eyes scanning the rapidly-changing screens quickly, a prickling sense of discontent radiating from his side of their bond. It meshes well with the simmering agitation she's doing her best to keep a lid on.

She listens with a keen ear as Jasper verbally summarizes all the information he's combing through. She scowls at the screens, pushing away the wave of alarm that sits between her ribs. "You're telling me that bodies are going missing from morgues in the _entire_ tri-state area?"

"Gross," Bree mutters behind them, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

"I concur," Peter returns lowly.

"Seems like it," Jasper answers her promptly, blatantly ignoring the peanut gallery hovering in the middle of his room. The computer screens flip again and again as he continues, glazed blue eyes riveted on the screens. "There are a few morgues in Vermont and Massachusetts, of course, but the concentration seems to be New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut. And there seems to be some staggering in when the bodies go missing. Only found out about the Boston morgue because they reported it right away, unlike the morgue a few counties over from our town, which has been keeping it quiet even though their bodies went missing yesterday."

"And we have no idea where these bodies are or what they're being used for," Ella finishes grimly, exchanging a weighted glance with Tony. "Fucking fantastic."

"Well, I mean, we know some creatures with a taste for undead flesh, right?" Bree pipes up uncertainly.

Tony shakes his head in disagreement, jaw taut with tension. "This isn't the work of ghouls. Not only is it too choreographed, but ghouls prefer their flesh to be a bit…aged," he supplies with a faint grimace.

"Bodies from a morgue would be too fresh," Ella agrees. As a point of fact, ghouls don't hang around graveyards just for the hell of it - it's where they find dinner. Plus, Stefan's ghouls are well under his control after the last incident involving them, and she knows Stefan wouldn't dark incur the wrath of either Ella or the scrutiny of humans by having such an overt operation. This isn't the work of any citizen of Charmstone, that much is obvious.

"Gross. Again," Bree says.

"Circle of life, baby," Peter says, but his voice has a distracted tone in it that Ella has come to know well. He's thinking of something, piecing some obscure information together.

Jasper turns his head just enough to catch Ella's gaze with an expectant stare. "This has to be what we've been waiting for, right?"

Ella's lips thin and she nods tersely. "Probably," she says, tone curt as she turns away from the computers. She closes her eyes briefly, torn between relief at not having to wait anymore and a sickening dread permeating all her senses. "But I have no idea what The Order would want to do with a bunch of dead bodies. As far as I know, a shadow dimension would need to be opened up and there's no sign of that, right Jasper?"

"No power surges, blackouts, or brownouts on the entire Eastern seaboard," he confirms distractedly.

"Reports of sightings?" Tony checks, heavy brow furrowed.

"None."

"Then the bodies are just _gone_?" Ella mutters in confusion. How do bodies just vanish from morgues with nobody seeing where they go? Magic, obviously. But not any magic that she is familiar with. Which is just _great_ , really.

"So, no zombie army?"

Ella aims a flat look at Bree. "I doubt it."

Peter twitches. "Well…." he trails off with a shrug. "I mean, I wouldn't doubt it? Like, we're probably not going to be in an episode of _The Walking Dead_ or have to worry about our brains or anything, but we've already had two rounds with zombie pet cemeteries and the last one was pretty gnarly."

"Ghouls and wendigos are the closest _actual_ zombies that exist, Peter," Ella points out skeptically.

He scrunches his face up. "Yeah, but not in mythology. Like, every culture literally has some version of a revenant, whether it's a vampire or some kind of ghost or whatever. And I'd like to point out that while ghouls and wendigos definitely feast on dead flesh, they themselves are actually living given the fact that they, you know, procreate. And since these are _fresh_ dead bodies that have gone missing…"

"Not out of the realm of possibility," Tony surmises seriously.

"But that's, like, _a lot_ of dead bodies," Bree says with thinly-concealed horror. "That isn't - I mean - how _many_?"

Jasper's computer chair swivels. "Hard to say. I'd estimate that most morgues are trying to keep this quiet, so there's no telling how many bodies are missing that are unreported. But from what has been logged and from the average number of corpses a morgue holds and the populations of the affected areas, I'd say upwards of a couple hundred."

Bree looks a little green at hearing that. "Oh, great," she says, a little weakly.

Peter shoots her a confused look. "I thought Riley was the one afraid of zombies."

"We're _twins_ ," Bree stresses with wide eyes.

Peter frowns and opens his mouth to surely retort something contradictory - but then a sense of _wrongness_ shivers over Ella's skin, an indication that something is nearing the new wards around Charmstone. She can take a wild guess as to what that something is and has the errant thought that _just once_ she'd like to stumble across trouble instead of jumping to meet it head-on.

Tony must have sensed her resignation through their bond, or better yet, had a second-hand feeling of the wards about to be breached, because his large hand latches onto her wrist and he firmly says, "You're not going anywhere without me."

And that is how Ella, Tony, Peter, and Bree end up at the edge of the wards on the northern forest border of Charmstone, staring down a trio of what can only be described as _beasts_.

"I think I might hurl," she hears Bree mutter thickly.

Ella can sense a similar - though unvoiced - revulsion from Tony. Even with her weak sense of smell and even standing a good twenty feet away from the _things_ , Ella can attest that the scent is pretty rank, like sulfur and rotting meat and the chemical sting of formaldehyde.

If Jasper hadn't tipped her off to the bodies missing from the morgues, Ella wouldn't have had any clue that the creatures were once human. Only vaguely humanoid, the swollen bodies are tall, nearly seven feet or more, with cloudy white eyes and mottled skin a distinct, dark shade of blue, the same shade the tongue turns when someone dies of asphyxiation. Around the feet and head are wisps of dark shadow-like smoke and any clothing that might have been present is either stained or ripped beyond recognition. And the three beasts are just standing and staring back at Ella's group, almost like they're waiting. She can taste the pungent black magic wrapped around the creatures even from behind the protection of Charmstone's wards.

It's the staring that gets to her because it seems unmistakably intelligent - like there are real _thoughts_ going on behind those cloudy white eyes. Her moral code might be loosely ambiguous, but there is something about these creatures that seems far more unnatural than any she has faced before. She has the pervasive feeling that even by looking back at the beasts, she is somehow desecrating them.

She can't imagine how _sick_ someone might have to be to go around creating one of these things, let alone the hundreds that Jasper suspects.

"Are they watching us?" Peter whispers. "Are they watching us like we're watching _them_?"

Ella nods once.

"What do we do?" he asks.

Ella glances at Tony and brings herself to her full height. "We get rid of them," she says. And without any more dithering, she and Tony stride forward beyond the wards in tandem, he with claws and she with her hands burning with silver magic.

It's as if their approach is some kind of signal to the creatures because quite suddenly they are charging forward - and there is nothing mindless in how aggressive the creatures approach the fight. Whatever they are, they are stunningly strong, easily batting Tony away like he's no more of a threat than a fly; they are also remarkably durable, seemingly unfazed by Ella's knives or any of her favored spells; and they are smart enough to go after the perceived weakest link of their small group.

"Holy God!" Peter yelps when two gang up on him after - once again - slamming Tony into a tree. Part of Ella is worried for her mate, because he's slower to stand each time he is repelled, and the rest of her is seconds from screaming in frustration because what the _fuck_ are these things and _why won't they die_? Nothing she does is working and none of them have everlasting stamina.

They need to end this sooner rather than later. "Suggestions?" Ella grits out breathlessly, ducking a meaty hand trying to bash into her head.

"Kill it with fire!" Bree yells.

Ella has already tried fire, of course, but maybe she needs to try a different kind of flame. Her specialized silver fire hadn't made an impact three minutes ago, so she doubts it will _now_ ; instead, she conjures two hands of plain fire, superheating the flames until they are scorching white-blue in her palms before releasing them at the backs of the two creatures cornering Peter.

With some satisfaction, she listens as the creatures snarl in pain, stopping their advancement entirely, which gives Peter enough time to slip nearer to Bree. Peter smiles, a drip of blood slipping down the side of his face. "Hey, that looked like it slowed it down -" He glances behind him at the now _super pissed_ creatures and yelps in alarm. "Ah, shit! Nope, no. No, it didn't!"

"Mother _fucker,_ " Ella spits. It's all she can do to keep a wall of white-blue flame around them as they regroup, which gives the werewolves enough time to catch their breath and Ella the opportunity to demand a solution from Raven, who is now soaring frantically overhead. Raven doesn't have a clue as to what the creatures are or how to defeat them, though, and if Ella weren't so preoccupied with keeping them all alive, she'd be worried at her familiar's lack of knowledge.

Very rarely had there ever been something Raven _didn't_ know - and those times where she was ignorant only happened when the obstacle was unduly seeped in dark magic.

All in all, the situation is becoming rather dire.

Tony swipes the back of his hand over his split lip, half his face a massive, painful-looking bruise with what is almost certainly a cracked cheekbone. His eyes don't show any pain or exhaustion, though; they gleam bright green with determination. "I have an idea," he says as he abruptly pulls his shirt over his head, hands falling to the button of his torn jeans.

Bree blanches. "Being a wolf isn't an advantage here!"

Tony cocks a brow, stepping out of the jeans around his ankles. "For you, maybe."

Bree scowls at him, just as bloodied and beaten. "Don't be an asshole right before you go and do something suicidal!" When Tony just stares at her with hard eyes and shifts into the supple form of his wolf, Bree turns to Ella beseechingly. "You! Aren't you supposed to stop him from getting himself killed?"

Ella's gaze drops down, meeting the lupine eyes of her mate. His hackles are already raised, muscles bunching beneath fur, a low growl rasping on his muzzle. He feels unmistakably _confident_ in whatever idea is running through his head - and she _knows_ Tony, knows him well enough that he never does anything dumb with his courage.

She breathes out and the white-blue wall of fire churns. "I'll isolate one and keep the others away," she says to Tony.

His head dips once in acknowledgement. He doesn't spare a second of waiting after she has separated one of the creatures with another wall of fire, bounding off with powerful muscles and lethal grace, his claws and teeth digging into deadened blue flesh. There isn't much Ella can do while she's holding the other two at bay, half of her attention constantly divided as she makes sure that the fire stays white-hot - but she does make a point of conjuring more blue fire at the feet of the creature that Tony is dealing with, keeping it immobilized by pain -

There is a great growl, quickly followed by a thundering rumble of the earth as the creature suddenly falls backward. Tony is perched on its chest, black blood dripping from his mouth. And not two feet away is the still-rolling head of the creature, torn from its neck by sheer determination.

Tony leaps off the downed creature, shaking his head a few times before looking up at Ella, the expression in his green eyes somewhat expectant.

Wordlessly, she isolates the second, and then the third creature, watching with raptness as her mate uses every ounce of his strength as an alpha wolf to decapitate creatures that not even her magic could overcome.

And after Tony has shifted back to human, exhausted and bruised and leaning heavily against Ella's back while she burns the creatures to dust - now that she can after they have died _again_ \- her mind begins to churn.

If defeating _three_ was _this difficult_ \- then how would any of them survive the hundreds that Jasper is predicting?

And what the actual fuck _are_ these beasts?

* * *

 **A/N: So, I did actually have to look into how many corpses an average morgue holds and, seriously, I could have lived without this knowledge. However, because I'm _super nice_ , I'll pass along my findings to you. Big cities - LA, Chicago, Seattle, New York - typically have several morgues, many of which are capable of holding at least 100 corpses; smaller towns and the average funeral parlor regularly have an average of 10 _unclaimed_ corpses every week; plus, local hospital morgues are capable of holding at least 20 at a time before having to outsource. So. Sometimes being a writer involves accumulating the kind of trivia that is, in a word, _worrying_. Sigh.**

 **Also, _love_ how everyone was like ZOMBIE ARMY! And I have to say _zombie_ is actually very close to what this monster is, but the mythos that I took it from doesn't technically consider it a zombie, so. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	212. part 15: 4: the sun, the moon, the truth

**four**

 **the sun, the moon, and the truth**

* * *

When Alec was first teaching her to meditate, he supplied Ella with a Buddhist mantra to center herself. It was meant to be something that would remind her that a calm mind was necessary to balance her magic; now, all she can think is that the mantra has become the story of her life, a unerring reminder that the things that hide in the shadows do not stay there for long.

 _Three things cannot long be hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth._

No kidding.

It seems like everything is coming out of the woodwork, these days. And Ella isn't simple enough to think any of it is by chance.

Like now, when she is supposed to be popping over to Carlisle's house to sit in on another of Alec and Merlynn's memory sessions, she just _happens_ to feel that tell-tale shiver that indicates yet another trio of _beast things_ approaching Charmstone's boarder. She groans, dropping her head back tiredly, and interrupting Peter's excited babble about what he _thinks_ the monsters are.

"More of them?" Mickie asks incredulously, dark circles beneath her eyes as she leans into Bree's side.

Ella purses her lips, glancing down at the random array of items on her workbench that she's been cannibalizing and cobbling together. There is all sorts of magically-infused ash and an actual machete spelled to burn white-hot flames and a spread of other things she's been cooking up just to take these creatures down. Because there would be more of them, of course. By the time the third attack came, it became glaringly obvious that the creatures are - at best - meant as a distraction and - at worst - meant to tire all the able fighters in town out. Looking around at said fighters, she has to admit that its working. It's been a week and today would mark the fourth attack and while they are getting better - quicker - at fending the creatures off, there is a sense of dread from Jasper's continued reports because they all know that _more_ will be coming eventually.

She nudges a piano wire coated in tacky mistletoe ash across the table. "Try to garrote the thing," she says bleakly. They are all by now similarly unbothered by the casual violence they speak of, since both practical experience and Peter's research have indicates that decapitation is the only sure-fire way to get rid of the beasts.

"Draugr," Peter corrects mildly, carefully taking the piano wire in hand without actually touching the mistletoe, which would hurt him just as soon as it would hurt the creature it's intended for.

Ella rolls her eyes. "Right, draugr. Whatever. Just let me know if this works."

She's pretty sure it _will_ , but then again, the _draugr_ have proven to be difficult opponents. Honestly, Peter is probably right about the identity of the creatures. Traditionally, draugr are the old Norse mythology version of the walking dead, except _so much worse_ than Hollywood's version of zombies. For one, the draugr are smart rather than mindless, brain-eating creatures; they retain all of their pre-death knowledge, are loyal to whoever revived them, and are more than capable of devising actual strategies. On top of that intelligence, however, is their ability to double their size, their supernatural strength, and their natural resistance to injury. That death-blue skin of theirs doesn't seem to register any pain outside of super-hot flame and is somewhat impervious to magic. And most of what they really know about the draugr is practical things that they've learned by going head-to-head with the things. Ella really hopes that Peter's research is wrong about the dragur being able to walk through stone, otherwise she can't see how they will be anything other than _royally_ _fucked_ once the real army of the undead comes to town.

Right now, the system they have of taking on the draugr in shifts seems to be working. But they're all tired and Ella is being spread especially thin, between the draugr and Merlynn's memory situation. She sighs, agitatedly gesturing for the three beta werewolves in her basement to go ahead and leave. "Don't do something stupid and die," she says by way of farewell.

Peter - typically - makes an exaggeratedly dramatic expression as he says, "It's all gloom and doom until someone starts leaking entrails."

Mickie blanches. "That's disgusting."

Bree is uncommonly grim as she replies, "But also true, even if it is a visual that I don't need."

Peter raises both brows. "My wordsmithing is the stuff of legends," he declares, letting the girls go ahead of him on the stairs up to the shop. He pauses at the base step, looking back to Ella with a flash of electric blue eyes. "Don't worry about us, boss. We've got this. Just - get us the intel we need, yeah?"

"Obviously," she drawls. But they both know it isn't as easy as that. There's really no telling what Merlynn will remember, _if_ she remembers anything. Everyday is different and most often, she isn't recalling anything that makes any sense. It's all jumbled and non-linear information and the only thing that's really become clear is that James' primary goal probably has fuck-all to do with any of them.

Ella waits until the werewolves have left the building before she releases a sigh of pent-up tension, shooting off a message of silver fire to Tony so he will know where his betas have gone and then tiredly asking Raven to keep an eye on the wolves as they deal with the draugr. Of course, Ella would rather be dealing with the damn things _herself_ , but not even she can be in two places at once - and now that they roughly know how to handle the draugr, her attention needs to be on the information locked up in Merlynn's mind.

Without much ado, Ella goes up to the store floor, catching Jane's eye as she passes. "I'm going now," she says.

"Wait!" Jane skirts around the counter, picking up a paper cup and a paper bag both printed with the familiar logo of _Sam's Diner_. "Here, take this. I know you haven't been eating as well as you should and Emily personally dropped these off for you," Jane says somewhat fretfully.

Ella takes the proffered goods, a bit rueful at the strong scent of coffee and something _delicious_ in the bag, her stomach grumbling loudly as if just recalling hunger. "I'm glad we have a tab there."

Jane huffs, somehow still sweet as she says, " _I'm_ glad that people want to take care of you, because God knows you won't do it for yourself."

"Whatever you say, _Mom_."

Jane blushes hotly, then shoos Ella out of the store, calling after her to be careful. Ella would do the same, only she knows that Jane is probably the most protected human in town; between being safe behind the store's warding and the extra protections Ella has weaved into Jane's ivory bracelet, Jane's continued safety is the farthest thing from a concern. Which, she supposes, gives Jane ample time to mother-hen Ella.

With a swig of bitingly strong coffee, Ella _pops_ over to Carlisle's house, stepping through the almost-visible white wards surrounding the house. She lets herself in through the front door, ambling through the hallway and casually seating herself on one of the couches. Merlynn and Alec are already there and seem to be in the middle of discussing something, though they each look up as Ella digs into the paper bag, pulling out some kind of grilled bacon-chicken-jalapeño monstrosity with a side of sweet potato fries.

"Don't mind me," Ella says after taking a bite. "Working lunch. Keep doing, you know, whatever."

"For Merlin's sake," Alec mutters, hurrying to and from the kitchen with a pile of napkins, much to Merlynn's amusement.

The older woman's poorly-stifled humor at the little scene makes Ella's chest tight with some unmentionable emotion. To say Merlynn has been through hell and back is quite the understatement; each of the sessions that Ella has observed have resulted in Merlynn sobbing at whatever lost knowledge has been retrieved. Ella's actually glad that she wasn't present for the time that Merlynn remembered giving birth to a baby girl, a child named Maggie that is evidently also James' daughter. The implications of _that_ is enough to make Ella sick to her stomach. Worse yet is the fact that other than a few scant memories of Maggie as a toddler, Merlynn has no idea what has become of her daughter.

And all Ella can think is that Maggie - her cousin - is yet another child caught up in this fucked up situation that, from what she can tell, has no higher purpose. Whatever James' aim is with The Order of Mordred, it certainly isn't noble.

She loathes being ignorant of the shadowy motives. What's the _point_ of having Merlynn give birth or placing her as an unwitting mole in The Coterie or locking up her memories and her free will for twenty years? What's the _point_ of going after all the werewolves in Northern America, of hunting down the descendants of Morgan le Fay, of Merlin? What's the point of orchestrating all those obstacles in Charmstone, in sic'ing that hag on Ella, in _specifically_ targeting Ella? She doesn't see the point of any of it and even if all of Merlynn's memories are restored, she doesn't think any of them will really elucidate the point.

James is _fucking_ crazy, as far as Ella can tell. And crazy rarely makes any kind of sense.

Sitting back, she watches as Merlynn cradles the rune-carved citrine between her palms, the stone glowing golden-yellow as Alec carefully feeds it white magic. Merlynn's eyes are closed, the thin lids shifting as her eyes move rapidly back and forth, a pinch of concentration on her copper brow. A fine sheen of sweat builds at Alec's temples as he keeps such constant control over the tiny thread of magic he burns into the citrine.

Minutes pass and it feels like hours.

Raven communicates to Ella that the beta wolves have successfully handled this batch of draugr.

She finishes her sandwhich and coffee, stomach still cramping with hunger, mind sluggish and tired.

She begins to turn over other ideas for more quickly eliminating the draugr; knowing what they are should help narrow down faster methods and, hey, maybe there's another option aside from decapitation, because that's just _gross_.

Alec shifts restlessly on his feet, glancing at Ella out of the corner of his eye. This session is taking a longer time than usual. Is that strange? Or is it par for the course? They have no idea - probably nobody in this history of magic has ever attempted this, so they're pretty much just winging it.

Ella lifts her shoulders, a tiny shrug.

Alec frowns.

She arches a brow.

He looks down at the citrine, the runes sparking gold, and breathes out slowly, holding the magic steady.

And then - quite abruptly - Merlynn's eyes snap open, shining an eerie sparkling white as she looks directly at Ella. "She knew," Merlynn says to her, almost toneless except for the quivering of her voice and the sudden tears spilling down her pale, freckled cheeks. "We knew that he knew about you and we did everything we could. I helped her bind your magic in the womb so you would be hidden and then - I - I don't - _she died_ \- and I could _feel it_ and I broke free - he was so mad - I hid you in the human world - and his wrath was so great, I did not awaken for years - not until he needed me to _try again_ because he -"

"Slow down," Alec urges.

Merlynn gasps in a greedy breath, unblinking.

Ella leans forward intently, trying to assimilate all this vague information.

"You were chosen by Magic," Merlynn continues hurriedly, as if she had to speak quickly or risk forgetting it all again, her hands curled so tightly around the citrine that her knuckles are white. "It had never happened - two bloodlines in one being - so we knew you were special - different - magic - and he knew that would be a threat to him - he couldn't have that - but we did everything we could - and - and - my Maggie - she is only the second - another attempt, this one under his control - oh, by the Gods, _that's why_ -"

Merlynn breaks off into chest-wracking sobs, the kind of grief that fills a room and sends chills down Ella's spine.

Her mind is curiously blank for a moment, eyes unblinking.

Three things cannot long be hidden, indeed - especially not the _truth_.

* * *

 **A/N: Getting some answers! Also, Norse folklore and mythology is _super_ effed up a lot of the time and, hands down, draugr are just about the creepiest creature I've ever come across. Something about them being super strong _and_ intelligent, plus with the ability to shift their size and walk through walls, just gives me the wiggins. There's a version of them in Skyrim, apparently, if you're interested in Googling that kind of thing. (Don't do it.)**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	213. part 15: 5: a grain of salt

**five**

 **a grain of salt**

* * *

If Ella were any weaker in character, she might actually believe that ignorance is bliss. But the fact is this: ignorance is ignorance and life has taught her that's its always better to _know_. Even when knowing is confusing at best and utterly devastating at worst.

Learning what Merlynn remembers falls somewhere between the two.

And it makes her _so angry_. She actually takes herself out to the backyard of the blueberry house to glower at the thick line of trees leading off into the forest, grinding her molars together as the backdoor slams behind her as she hangs onto her temper by a thin thread. She doesn't want to do anything stupid, like bust up all the glass in the house. Again. Esme sure wouldn't appreciate it and Carlisle would get that _look_ on his face, the one that borders concern and pity.

She glares out at the garnet setting sun, shoulders tight and drawn up around her ears, arms crossed snug over her ribs where her fingers dig into flesh, surely leaving bruises. She does her best to tramp down on her mating bond to Tony, not wanting to concern him just because her anger is trying to get the better of her as she works to reconcile all that she has learned - about the circumstances of her own life, mostly.

Carlisle is brave enough to follow after her some ten minutes later. "Not interrupting your brooding, am I?" he wonders as he softly closes the backdoor to the kitchen, the feel of his miniscule magic radiating a sense of calm that Ella hasn't quite encountered in anyone else.

"I'm not brooding. I don't do that," Ella mutters.

Carlisle makes a sound of amusement, mostly muffled in his nose as he pushes his glasses up from where they have slipped. He sidles up beside her and speaks in a wry tone. "No? Must've been mistaken then, I suppose. Although, this does look like brooding, it does."

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, taking in the new streaks of silver salting his blond hair. "Then it's new," she says flatly. "We both know I prefer temper tantrums."

Carlisle hums. "And yet, I see no evidence of such," he notes.

"Didn't want to scare anybody," she utters honestly. There's enough trauma being unveiled without adding Ella's special brand of fucked up into the mix.

"That bad?"

Ella snorts without humor.

Carlisle waits patiently, hands folded behind his back, eyes staring straight ahead just like hers as he waits her out. He knows her too well, better than most, and she does eventually open her mouth, struggling to articulate this new knowledge she now possesses.

Renee Svane had known that James would be after her child from almost the moment of Ella's conception and she'd taken extraordinary measures to ensure Ella's safety, first binding Ella's magic in utero and then again after giving birth. It had been a risky undertaking, the kind of gamble that might have killed a fetus not chosen by Magic itself.

Because Ella _was_ chosen by Magic. For whatever reason, there had been no mixing of the bloodlines until her conception; she is the first child to ever be borne out of a combination of Merlin and Morgan le Fay. There is some kind of symmetry, there. Apparently, Merlin, Morgan, and Mordred were also chosen champions of Magic once upon a time and now it is Ella's turn. Her life has a purpose, one her parents were willing to die to protect and one that Merlynn felt strongly enough about to temporarily break the hold James had on her in order to hide Ella in the human foster system, ultimately bringing James' wrath directly down on her head as a result.

It's a lot to take in.

But it does explain why Magic has brought her back to life before and why she can perform feats of magic that are, for better or worse, simply _not done_ by anyone else.

Ella can only surmise that her specific purpose has something to do with James, who at the time of her conception had been at the height of his power of his little terrorist Order, working his way up the ranks for whatever goal he has in mind. And she can only imagine what that goal might be, unless Merlynn finally recalls something more specific.

She does know this, however. Merlin created creatures thrumming with life, like the shapeshifters, trolls, and goblins; Morgan le Fay created the ambiguous creature races, like the harbingers and the fae; and Mordred pushed the boundaries of magic, creating ghouls and pixies and paying with the limits of necromancy. All bidden by Magic, as they were each chosen.

If Magic chose Ella to deal with James - well, then it wouldn't take a genius to guess that James' designs are somehow more unnatural than Mordred's had been.

What that says about the other lost little girl in this mess - Maggie - she doesn't rightly know. Merlynn said that Maggie was a _second attempt, this one under his control_. Under James' control, rather than Magic's? What does _that_ mean? And if Magic had been directly involved in Ella's conception, then how did _James_ manage to impregnate Merlynn without Magic's explicit consent?

 _What had he done_?

(A tiny part of Ella already suspects the truth. But no - not even _James_ , her enemy without a face, would sink so low. Right?)

She's still reeling from the revelations when she finally falls silent, gnawing on her bottom lip while Carlisle processes her rambling explanation.

"Well," Carlisle says at length, his voice thoughtful. "I admit, I did think you were something special when you managed to steal my wallet the first time we met. Crafty, but also strong. I could feel your magic that day, did you know? I thought maybe you were going to be an exceptionally powerful witch, but even that was a bit mundane for how bright your magic felt, like a diamond in the rough. And when you turned out to be a magician, a child of Morgan le Fay, well, it all made sense how special you are, innit."

"Not special. _Chosen_ ," she spits, as if in a curse.

Carlisle's hand falls onto her shoulder, squeezing gently. "Special," he insists firmly, the blue in his eyes warming considerably. "A parent's prerogative, you see. We always believe our children are the most special and I am somewhat gratified that Magic agrees wholeheartedly with me."

"Dad…"

"You listen to me, Ella Cullen," he says with some authority. "You take everything you learned tonight with a grain of salt. Chosen by Magic or not, the only reasonable responsibility you have is to _yourself_. All you ever need to do is keep living, and you do whatever it takes to make that happen."

Ella's eyes are burning - tears, she realizes a bit dumbly. She blinks them back, feeling the noose around her neck loosening for the first time in a while. "I can do that," she says, feeling oddly vulnerable.

The corners of Carlisle's mouth turn upward. "I'll hold you to that, love."

 _Take it with a grain of salt_ , she reminds herself sternly. After all, Merlynn isn't the most reliable source given her memory issues and even then, she's biased to her own beliefs - and Ella shouldn't let that bias get into her head.

Maybe Magic did choose Ella with a specific purpose in mind. Maybe Magic wants Ella alive to take out whatever threat James represents. Maybe that's true.

But even if it is - or even if it isn't - it doesn't change what _Ella_ must do.

Because chosen by Magic or not, James is still gunning for her. And she needs to do something about that - her actual life probably depends on it.

* * *

 **A/N: All the feels, man. Although hopefully this ties up some of the loose ends regarding Ella's early life - mainly, why she ended up in the _human_ foster system and why the hell her parents were in hiding in the first place. **

**As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	214. part 15: 6: the hard sell

**six**

 **the hard sell**

* * *

Ella has never missed a town meeting if she could help it. It's probably one of the greatest commitments she's ever made in her life. Not that she was ever looking for the kind of responsibility that was thrust upon her, but if she _really_ thinks about it, she's been looking out for other people her whole life; younger kids in the group homes, little nerds in school, Jane. There's something in her that wants to help people - Merlin's influence? - and while that admittedly doesn't jive so well with her anti-social nature - Morgan le Fay's influence? - it is what it is. She's not such a jackass that she won't involve herself if she sees something she deems wrong. It isn't hard to make that fit with her willingness to take on the kind of responsibility that is involved in being on the town council.

Today, however, she did miss the town meeting. She hadn't even realized it was Friday until Tony pointed it out, and then she had dithered about it for long enough that she delayed both of their attendance a good half-hour. By the time they show up, the main meeting has already broken up and the town council of representatives are gathered around the podium talking in low tones.

Tony squeezes her hand before he releases his grip and walks ahead of her, inserting himself into a conversation about the ongoing "strange activity" the others have noticed just outside of town. Knowing her thoughts are still churning through the implications of the destiny now sitting at her feet, Tony takes up the helm of updating the town leaders on what's all going on under their noses.

"Haven't crossed the town border yet, but they're getting bolder and smarter. Draugr are tough to fight and only seem to effectively die by decapitation," Tony explains forthrightly, clearly trying to subtly angle for assistance without asking for it outright.

In all honesty, even with the tools Ella can supply, it takes three beta werewolves to take out a single draugr and since the draugr like to travel in threes, her group has been outmanned by the undead army for a while. But it's also true that very few of the creatures in town are actually capable of offensive fighting; banshees are as strong as humans, other magic-weilders and fae are too weak, the trolls and goblins would have to fight in hoards, and ghouls only berserk when they're starving, which is too dangerous to even contemplate. That leaves the werewolves in the main Masen Pack, but most of them are simply _not_ fighters; even the wolves in law enforcement would need further training. Tony's little pack has an advantage of knowing how to fight because _Tony_ knows how to fight - and Tony was trained by his Uncle Marcus to be an enforcer, so it's clearly a skill set that isn't natural to come by. As far as Ella knows, Elisabeth is still relying on Tony to be the enforcer for the Masen Pack, so there really isn't anyone else that can help.

It's worth a shot for him to ask, though. And it serves the double purpose of giving a clear warning about the draugr - mostly to avoid the draugr at all costs.

"But what _are_ they?" Kate asks with a faint frown, glancing at Stefan out of the corner of her eye.

Stefan is predictably affronted. "Not _my_ kin, I assure you!" he says hotly.

"Of course not," Black pipes up languidly from where he is sitting in the first row of wooden chairs. "They're dark creatures, these walking dead, and they have no true taste for flesh, correct?"

Tony dips his head in agreement, going on to explain the draugr in better depth than before, doing his best to soothe the ruffled feathers of the council.

Ella's attention, on the other hand, has zeroed in completely on Black. How stupid of her to forget that William Black is another descendant of Mordred and while he claimed to embrace his mother's people when he ate that shadow, it doesn't escape her notice that he must know something of his father's people. Did he know _who_ his father is or if his father is still alive? And Ella knows that Black moved to Charmstone sometime in the last decade, so where did he grow up? The slim chance that Black might know something about The Order or about James' methods and motivations is a heady possibility.

Ella bites down on her tongue before she can start demanding answers. That's a private sort of conversation and it really isn't the point of why she agreed to come with Tony tonight. Dragging her eyes away from Black, Ella edges closer to the podium, lifting her chin defiantly when a host of expectant eyes fall on her, bolstered by Tony's unwavering support seeping through their bond.

"There's a war coming," she announces, the words falling out of her mouth, sharp and blunt.

"A war?" wonders Aro, his brows hiked up on his forehead.

"Certainly not a war," Elisabeth says with some censure. "A confrontation of sorts, right? Nothing that the town hasn't survived before -"

"It's a war," Ella disagrees bleakly, the truth of her words ringing deep in the marrow of her bones. "I don't know when and I don't know how, but there is devastation coming to Charmstone and there is no way to avoid it. The draugr are only puppets, a first step to make us tired and weak. The real threat is so much worse - and _he_ is inevitable."

"Mayor Newton," Tony says with some authority. "We would like to encourage an evacuation of the town, mostly for the humans. The creatures should be able to ferret out safety for themselves, or at the very least, seek asylum on the Viridity campus, or in one of the pocket realms created by the fae until the threat passes."

Mayor Newton flushes darkly, a nervous sweat beading on his upper lip. "And just what am I supposed to tell the fine people of this town?"

"You'll make something up," Ella says flatly. She raises a single brow when Mayor Newton looks fit to argue, a long sigh escaping her. "I can _create_ the kind of circumstances to evacuate the town, if you'd like. A forest fire, earthquakes and massive fault lines, a mysterious issue with the town water supply, even a town-wide spell of complacency to make the people leave. That's your choice. But innocent human blood isn't going to be on _our_ hands if you fail to get these people to safety."

It's a hard sell, she knows, this kind of doomsday scenario they are painting. But that doesn't extinguish the truth that all these people need to _leave_ \- save themselves now so that there is one less thing to worry about when James and The Order eventually arrive. If Ella has to _make_ an evacuation happen, she will.

"Was that a threat?" Aro asks with a wide, impish grin.

"Yes," Ella says simply.

Elisabeth sets her hands on her hips, nodding decisively as she catches Ella's eye. "You say that there's trouble on the horizon? Fine. I will make sure Mayor Newton lives up to the duties he was elected to oversee. Consider it done."

Ella looks back at Elisabeth Masen, a woman who is - for all intents and purposes - her mother-in-law and for the first time feels a tiny smile appear on her face, something like _approval_ radiating from the Alpha wolf.

"Excellent," Tony cuts in, again calling attention to himself. "Now, any able fighters among your people…."

Ella steps away from the group, pivoting on her heel so that she is looking right at Black and his fathomlessly dark eyes. She tilts her head in silent appraisal, sorting through the tangle of her thoughts. "We need to talk," she tells him.

Black stands, the shadow beneath his feet nearly substantial and twice as dark as a normal shadow. "You know where to find me," he says as he walks away.

Ella knows she isn't imagining the bear paws made of shadows that follow after his feet.

* * *

 **A/N: Preparations! Introspection! Epiphanies!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	215. part 15: 7: one blackbird to the other

**seven**

 **said one blackbird to another**

* * *

The cabin is as unchanging as ever, a stoic center in the most remote woods of Charmstone with the most fleeting of wards set around it, as if placed as an afterthought of a security measure. Though, what could the enigmatic William Black have to fear?

When Ella arrives with a dissolute low _pop_ ringing in her ears, there is a large, flat shadow lumbering to and fro across what stands as the front yard. The bear that is usually attached to Black's shadow, his familiar from the astral plane now in a fully manifested form - not unlike Alec's, the white stag tattooed into his skin. Ella spares a brief moment to wonder why Raven doesn't have a secondary form, and then just as swiftly chalks it up to the nuances between the different kinds of magics. Stepping forward, she spares the shadowed bear on the ground an arched brow as she boldly invites herself into Black's cabin.

He's waiting for her, arms crossed over his torso as he sits in some awful hemp contraption of a bucket chair, his feet bare and his hair free of paint streaks. Black is as impassive as ever, except for the odd twang of his dark lifeline that betrays his nerves and the slow tap of his finger against his elbow.

Ella doesn't bother beating around the bush. "So, who was your father?"

"Ephraim Black, a descendant of Mordred and a dark magician in his own right," Black answers promptly.

"Your mother?" Ella checks. Not necessarily to trap him in a lie, but just to make sure she has all her information straight. From what he's said before, she's gathered that his mother's people were naturalistic magic-users, probably Wiccans who were both witches and worshiped Magic. Evidently, Black's entire attitude toward magic as a shaman hails from Wiccan teachings and not Mordred's philosophy. The man himself might border on cryptic in the extreme, but he's trustworthy.

Ella just needs to know what he knows.

"Dead."

"For how long?" she asks unflinchingly.

"I'm told she passed in childbirth," Black says blandly. He looks at Ella with a keen eye of appraisal, the same look he gave her art portfolio before accepting her into the art program at Viridity. It's a look that takes the complete measure of the person he's looking at. "Before you ask, I was raised by my father in what can loosely be described as a compound. I wanted for nothing, with tutors and nannies and more access to dark magical artifacts than you can even fathom. Ephraim, you must understand, is a collector. I believe I was his prized possession. He might have loved me, in his own way."

Ella sits down on the nearest surface, which happens to be a rough-hewn corner table made of cherry wood and littered in scars left by cup rings. "I'm sensing a _but_."

"But," Black sighs lowly with a shake of his head. "I ran away when I was sixteen and have been rejecting everything he's ever taught me since. I found my mother's people and learned from them instead, learning how to manage my shamanic abilities. Ephraim found me among them a year later and slaughtered them all as punishment. I managed to escape and learned how to hide myself near strong magical currents. I've been using the strong ley lines of Charmstone to keep myself hidden for little more than a decade, as you know."

Her stomach churns at the blasé way Black reports such a traumatic event in his life, even as she tucks away the knowledge that wide-scale murder is something of a family trait for the descendants of Mordred.

"Is he still alive?"

"Most likely."

Ella nods to herself, then says, "This compound where you were raised - was it some sort of base for The Order?"

"Yes and no," Black says thoughtfully. "Mostly, the compound held creatures and functioned very similarly to a zoo. Ephraim was fascinated by the magic that creatures possess and made it his mission to understand how something as simple as a _red cap_ could have as much magic as something as complex as a hedge witch. There were many…experiments I was made to witness," he answers slowly. "Sometimes, however, others would visit the compound. Other magicians mainly, but also several powerful warlocks and witches. As I grew older, I came to understand that these were members of The Order of Mordred and that Ephraim had a high rank among them as a scientist of sorts."

 _That_ is useful. Ella sits up straighter, excitement shivering up her spine. "Then you know what The Order is after?"

Black looks at her as if she is particularly stupid. "Power, obviously."

Irritation sparks in her next words. "No, they don't just want _power_. Anyone can have power or become more powerful. They want something else. There has to be a reason that The Order has spent generations culling the bloodlines of Merlin and Morgan le Fay."

Black raises his eyebrows. "You are aware of the grudge descendants of Mordred might hold for Merlin and Morgan _destroying_ him, correct?"

"This is more than a grudge," she argues. "It has to be more than a grudge and a power struggle."

Black's expression softens minutely, as if he's looking at a child who doesn't quite understand the world around them. "Evil acts rarely have a sane reason."

Ella scowls, unwilling to let go of this idea in her head that there is something _else_ , something _more_ at play here. There's some kind of motivation that she just isn't seeing or isn't understanding. And using Black as a resource was certainly a dud - he'd have been too young to understand and it was long enough ago that anything he did know is useless.

Still, she tries one last time. "Did you ever hear anything about someone called the Overseer?"

"No," Black answers simply.

Fuck.

Useless.

A waste of time.

Ella scrubs a hand over her face in agitation, then stands to make her way swiftly toward the door. "Well, thanks anyway for answering my questions. And I'm sorry. About your mom, I mean. I-"

The words die in Ella's throat as a sudden idea overcomes her. A clue, a little link, a tiny piece of a puzzle that just might start making sense if her intuition is right.

Ephraim was a scientist with a supernatural zoo at his finger tips.

Merlynn says that the Overseer - James - had been behind all the creatures that were sent to Charmstone.

Who else in The Order might have had access to an entire fucking _flock_ of pixies?

"Those experiments," Ella says suddenly, her voice sharp with curiosity. "What exactly was he doing?"

Black stares at her for a moment. Then he says, "Extracting the magic from the creatures."

For a moment, Ella's head is filled with white noise, several pieces of the puzzle slotting into place rapidly, one right after the other; all those dead werewolves, a quest to be the most powerful, a child chosen by Magic. It all just makes some kind of _sense_. All the genocidal slaughter has had a _purpose_.

James will never be as powerful as Ella naturally is - with two bloodlines swimming through her veins and being chosen by Magic itself, Ella is a walking nuclear powerhouse of magic potential that James could never hope to measure up to and _that's_ why he was so vengeful that she'd been born, because he must have known that Ella represented his end.

And then Maggie's conception was James' attempt to have that kind of power under his control and he must have used Ephraim's experiments to make it happen. But Maggie is, what, _maybe_ ten years old? Younger? If James already has Maggie, then why does he need to kill all those werewolves and take their innate magic?

Unless he plans to use all that power for himself, that is.

Head spinning, Ella breathes out, "I have to go," before drawing her magic around her and _popping_ away. She lands in front of a familiar blue house with a singular purpose.

She has to know if she's right.

* * *

 **A/N: Man, can none of these people have happy childhoods? Poor characters.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	216. part 15: 8: tell-tale heart

**eight**

 **tell-tale heart**

* * *

Sometime between Ella storming into the house to rouse Merlynn from a nap to demand answers and subsequently drawing Carlisle and Esme to the guest room where Ella is standing over her aunt, her goal of validating the _insane_ idea floating through her mind had dissolved into what might loosely be described as a shouting match. Alec had shown up some time ago, vehemently refusing to use the citrine to extract more of Merlynn's memories, to which Ella had retorted that he's being too gentle. And Carlisle, ever the peacemaker, had finally raised his voice to cut into Ella and Alec's argument, while Esme spent her time rubbing at her temples, as if to stave off a headache.

"It would be cruel!" Alec shouts.

"Fine by me if being cruel gets _results_ ," Ella sneered back loudly.

"Alright, alright!" Carlisle yelled, quite ineffectually. "That's enough, the both of you!"

Merlynn had shrunk in on herself, vibrant copper curls wild around her weary expression. She's probably scared, considering how Ella had woken her with a few curt words and a flare of wild magic. It reminds Ella distinctively of the way Jane was in that hospital bed, all small and meek, and shame ripples beneath the surface of her mind, warring with the drive she has to protect these people and not die in the process.

There's a time for being nice and coaxing answers out with honey; and then there's a time where piss and vinegar are the best tools to use. It's already been a week of the dragur with no indication that those little skirmishes will be slowing down. And while Tony might have twisted Mayor Newton's arm into evacuating the town, there is so much more to be done. Steps that have to be taken and plans that must be made.

And Ella still doesn't know what she's dealing with, really. How does she fight against an opponent who prefers to send out puppets? What is Ella supposed to do if she doesn't know where to find James or even how much of a threat he _specifically_ is when he doesn't have other people doing his bidding?

She can't beat a mystery anymore than someone can kill an idea.

"You'll hurt her!" Alec argues.

"Better one person hurt than all of us dead!"

"She's been through enough!"

"Oh, _please_ ," Ella spits derisively. "Even I know this hasn't even gotten _started_."

Carlisle steps between them. "Why don't we all just take a minuet to-"

"There's one thing we haven't tried," Merlynn blurts out, hands twisting in the hem of her simple cotton dress. She shrinks in a bit on herself when all the eyes in the room snap down to where she is huddled on the bed. Merlynn swallows and then says, "My memories….they might never come back quite right or at all….But maybe we shouldn't be trying to extract _my_ memories."

Alec and Carlisle stare at her blankly, uncomprehending.

"Explain," Ella says flatly.

Merlynn takes a deep breath before pushing down the neck of her dress, exposing the uppermost swell of her breast. Amid the fine sprinkling of freckles below her collarbone is a splash of faded white, a shape dull enough that it takes Ella a moment to recognize it for what it is. Sitting right above Merlynn's heart is the shape of a dove, weakened by Merlynn's recovering state, but still able to move sluggishly on her skin. Ella has the distinct impression that the dove is looking right at her as Merlynn continues to speak.

"Our familiars are part of us," she says softly. "Separate but also the same. I…might not be able to recall everything that happened to me, but Cherish might…"

Ella hadn't even spared a thought to if Merlynn even _had_ a familiar - but then, all magicians do have familiars of a sort, and like Alec's white stag, the little dove embedded in Merlynn's skin probably has the ability to become corporeal.

Alec looks set to argue, probably on principles that Ella can't even be bothered to care about, but she holds up a hand to stave of his protests. Instead, she looks at Merlynn seriously, feeling a tinge of Tony's solemnity seeping through her lips. "Are you sure?"

"I want to be free of James," Merlynn whispers. She hesitates for a second, looking unsure. "And I…want my daughter to be free of him, too. I will do whatever it takes."

Wordlessly, Ella holds her hand out - and Merlynn responds, closing her eyes with a low hum, the dove on her chest growing steadily, slowly brighter until it seems to simply _peel_ itself off of Merlynn's skin, coming to life right before their eyes. When Alec summons Akira, the process is always blindingly fast, but because of Merlynn's weakened state, the entire process is entirely visible. The end result is the dove - Cherish - sitting on the palm of Ella's hand, tiny talons pricking her skin, looking ruffled and worse for wear.

Ella stares down at the little dove, some instinct driving her to stroke a finger down Cherish's beak before locking eyes with the dove's milky stare -

Grey creeps around Ella's vision, tunneling as sound turns to white noise, her breath caught in her lungs as she and the dove gaze at one another. Unblinking. Completely still. Silent. And while there is something chafing at Ella's magic, a buzzing vibration of white and neutral magic fighting against each other, all Ella can focus on are the warping, twisting, shifting watercolor visions flipping through her mind fast enough to make her dizzy.

Memories. _Merlynn's_ memories. Not all of them, she doesn't think, because all that time spent under mind control has muddled everything even for the little dove, Cherish. But there is enough fleeting glimpses funneling into Ella's mind from _before_ and a few sparse snapshots of _during_ that, between one heartbeat and the next, Ella abruptly knows.

She knows how Maggie was conceived, through potions and blood rituals and the sacrifice of the magic of a hundred magical creatures.

She knows about conversations Merlynn overheard with a man who looks strikingly similar, if not older, than Black - Ephraim, if she had to guess - and James. All long, drawn out discussions about how the inert magic from felled supernatural creatures is being stored and cultivated and readied for some kind of _transfusion_.

She knows about the way James' face twists as he wears the mask of the Overseer each time the hunters and various Order members reported back to him about how, yet again, Ella had managed to survive.

She knows what Maggie looks like and how seldom her laugh is.

She knows the sweep of numbness that blanketed Merlynn's mind when she'd been forced to act as Victoria - and the swell of _painpainpain_ that came each time Merlynn's mind protested, broke through, took over, even for just a few precious moments.

She knows how creatures scream and twist under torture as their magic is stolen from them.

She knows dark places of the world and heavy cloud cover and standing in the rain to feel _something_ , anything on her skin that was gentle and kind.

And she knows further beyond that - the entirety of Merlynn's life, her time as a girl playing with her sister, the thoughtful lessons Solomon taught, the way Merlynn felt as she watched from afar as Renee fell in love with Carl, and then the way Merlynn was fooled by rakish grins and grand romantic gestures.

She knows how sensitive the hairtrigger of James' temper could be.

She knows the debilitating fear and the crippling need to be perfect, to not anger him _again_.

She knows the flimsy consolation that Merlynn told herself - _he didn't mean it, he apologized, he promised not to do it again_.

She knows what it is to begin to loose herself.

She knows all of James' shady behavior, the way he sometimes slipped into the vernacular of older days, the way he obsessed over any hint of a wrinkle, the way he expressed his disdain for dying.

She knows of how he idolized Mordred's mission to push the limitations set by Magic.

She knows about all the time James spent staring at dusty tombs and convincing himself of prophecy.

She knows of the hope he expressed once he learned that Magic had chosen someone to take the mantel of revolutionizing magic - and the swift rage that followed once he realized that Magic had not chosen _him_ , but a _baby_ -

Ella knows, because Cherish knows, has been diligently safekeeping all of Merlynn's memories, protecting her magician the best she is able so that Merlynn's mind would not forever be broken.

 _You will stop him_ , says a soothing, fluttering feminine voice.

And Ella knows that Cherish is right - Ella will stop James. But not because of Magic or because he'd done his best to ruin her life from the moment she was born. No, she would stop James because nobody should ever have to live through what Merlynn has managed to survive.

Ella blinks her dry eyes, drawing herself out of the flurry of activity in her mind, and finds that both of her hands are cupping the little dove close to her face until they are nose-to-beak. Mouth dry, Ella strokes her finger over Cherish's round head before carefully passing the familiar back to Merlynn, belatedly registering that the room had fallen silent.

Ella clears her throat, head pulsing. "Merlynn's memory sessions should be more spaced out," she says, flicking her eyes to Cherish.

Alec's expression contorts in confusion, but he doesn't say anything, apparently still vexed by the way Ella had gone about this entire ordeal.

Carlisle, however, is looking at her with those keenly intelligent eyes partially hidden by gleaming glasses. "Ella, love? Are you quite all right?"

Somewhat dazed, Ella manages to voice her reply. "'m fine…Learned what I needed to know…" She stops, swaying in place and only standing upright by the grace of her locked knees. Feeling oddly drained, Ella blinks rapidly, fighting off a wave of dizziness, her magic battering beneath her skin.

She feels Esme move to stand behind her, a gentle hand at the small of her back to aid her balance. "Come along, Ella. I'll give Alice a call and have someone take you home, alright?"

Ella might nod, or she might not have had the chance.

Her magic is _snapping_ at her, overly sensitive, and her pulse is loud in her ears. Black dots dance across her vision - and by the time the room is spinning and the floor is rushing up to meet her, Ella has already swooned right into unconsciousness.

* * *

 **A/N: So, we have a few more clues about James and the mystery of Maggie's existence is solved and we know that Ella's hunch about Ephraim's experiments were right...**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	217. part 15: 9: the pecking order

**nine**

 **the pecking order**

* * *

Ella comes to with a burst of sharp pain square in the middle of her forehead. Which is swiftly followed by another handful, each pointed jab hammering away at the same place. It takes her an embarrassingly long time to realize that this particular pain is caused by Raven pecking at her with unmistakable annoyance.

"What the hell, Raven?" Ella grouses, nudging her familiar away with a wince. She wouldn't be surprised to find her forehead red or bleeding, as Raven had seemed disinclined to be gentle. "What's your problem?"

 _You are my problem!_ Raven claims irately, onyx eyes glittering as she backs away slightly. As she does, prickly talons scratching lightly through the fabric of Ella's shirt, Ella takes a moment to gather her bearings on what happened. The last thing she remembers is - _oh_ , right. Ella's nose wrinkles as she recalls that she _fainted_ , of all things, and now she seems to be in Carlisle's book-cluttered living room, laid down on a buttery new couch. Briefly, she wonders how Raven came to be inside and imagines that the bird must have made more than a bit of a ruckus.

After all, the current state of Ella's forehead is proof enough that her familiar can be as insistent as Ella often is. Naturally.

Ella squints at Raven, attempting to piece together her familiar's mood. "What has you in such a damn snit?" she mutters, only to inhale sharply when Raven swiftly pecks at her collarbone. Rubbing at her skin with a wince, Ella scowls at Raven. "Seriously, what the _fuck_?"

 _Yes, that is quite what I would like to know as well!_ Raven replies with a flap of her ruffled wings. _You foolish, reckless child! I cannot imagine what was going through your mind for you to think that mentally connecting with another magician's familiar was a good idea, but you are very lucky that Merlin's blood also runs through your veins, otherwise you might have so thoroughly disrupted your natural balance of magic that you could have gotten yourself horrifically maimed - and that isn't even considering what might have happened to your aunt's familiar!_

Ella narrows her eyes, discontented by her familiar's chastisement. "I was thinking that I can't keep twiddling my thumbs waiting for answers," she says tersely. "Besides, Merlynn and Cherish didn't seem to think it would be a problem, and it worked out anyway."

If Raven were capable of rolling her eyes, she certainly would have at Ella's explanation. _Oh, yes. Please do continue to take advice from a magician with a muddled memory and a familiar suffering from an addled mind. Never mind that the weakened state of Merlynn's magic might not have tolerated the invasion of your magic connecting to her familiar-_

"Nobody got hurt."

 _Except for you_.

"I'm _fine_ ," Ella snaps. "And I'm nineteen - I'm not a kid and -"

 _You are an insolent child_ , Raven insists with a squawk.

Ella bites her tongue so she doesn't shoot back a retort that would only prove Raven's point. Instead, she settles for sitting up abruptly and dislodging Raven from her perch, not that Raven is terribly bothered by this action as she lands on Ella's knee and again pecks at Ella in punishment.

 _Damn bird_ , Ella thinks privately with little exasperation. To herself, she can admit that she _might_ have rushed into things without considering the consequences - but she meant what she said about not being able to waste any more time not knowing. And now that she fully understands the situation - or _mostly_ understands, considering the mysterious prophecy and the uncertainty of when James would personally strike against her - she can rest a little easier. Spend more time figuring out how to take out a guy who has no problem siphoning the lifeforce and magic of still-living creatures.

She hesitates to think how powerful that might make someone.

Ella has often thought of herself as a blunt force, a sledgehammer or a wrecking ball.

Is James the magical equivalent of a bomb, then?

Ella stretches her neck, straining her ears to hear that familiar clamor of a tea kettle in the kitchen and the creak of the ceiling as weight shifts in the rooms upstairs. Her magician's vision tells her that Carlisle is the one in the kitchen and that Esme is upstairs with Merlynn; Alec must have left, then, and Ella finds herself a little relieved. For her, Alec is best taken in small doses. That, and Ella is already feeling thoroughly chastised from Raven and _really_ doesn't want to hear it from anyone else.

Which is why she's a bit leery when a familiar beloved golden lifeline comes closer into view. She senses Tony's awareness of her through their mating bond and suspects he's been biding his time in the kitchen as she had a one-sided argument with Raven. But now that she's fallen quiet, he seems to take that as his cue to lean into the living room, all broad shoulders and messy curly hair and intense green-eyed stare trained directly on her.

She lifts her chin defiantly. "You aren't here to lecture me too, are you? Because I don't want to hear it."

Tony's scarred brow lifts, his lips quirking to the side in bemusement. "I'm just here to take you home. Not really the lecturing type and I figure Raven had _plenty_ to say."

Ella stares.

"Raven can be _very_ loud," he explains.

Ella snorts.

Raven flaps her wings at both of them, then hops off of Ella's knee and flies out the open window, lingering in one of the trees outside. Tony watches this, his side of the bond tinged with curiosity, and Ella shakes her head as she stands. She isn't dizzy anymore and aside from the dull throbs left by Raven's pecking, her head isn't hurting either. Whatever magical backlash she'd had from viewing those memories seems to have faded completely and she considers the apparent risk worth it. She'd do it again, if she had to.

Tony reaches for her hand, tangling their fingers together as she peeks into the kitchen. Carlisle refuses to be swayed from forcing a cup of his strong herbal tea down her throat, insisting that she needs to keep up her strength, and Ella goes along with a drawn out sigh. She even promises to have another cup before bed just so Carlisle will stop his fretting.

Once successfully leaving the house, Ella heaves a deep breath, which somehow prompts a rush of affection from Tony and a low chuckle. She looks up at him with an arched brow.

"You know, its actually a good thing when people worry about you - means they care," he tells her.

Ella's first instinct is to roll her eyes and brush him off. But this is _Tony_ and he deserves her honestly. And so she says, "I'm still not used to it. I don't think I ever will be."

He squeezes her hand and they begin the walk home, even though it's easier and faster for Ella to just teleport them. It's somehow very nice to spend this time together. Ella guiltily realizes that the most she's been around Tony in the last few weeks has been to sleep and not much else - and she knows he understands her preoccupation given that he shares the same concerns, but it makes her heart twinge to realize she's missed him. A lot, actually.

She hopes he knows that, because she has no idea how to actually articulate the feeling, still clumsy with emotions as she is. So instead, she finds her voice slipping into a reassuring tone as she speaks. "We're going to be okay."

Tony peers down at her. "Is that optimism I hear?"

She rolls her eyes, albeit fondly.

It's enough for now.

* * *

 **A/N: Another day, another update. Someone save me from my thesis. Just kidding. Or not. Or am I?**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	218. part 15: 10: ghost town

**ten**

 **ghost town**

* * *

Much as she's relieved to see the majority of Charmstone evacuated under some fictitious concern for a dysfunctional electrical grid, it's also somewhat uncomfortable to see the town so - empty. For as long as Ella has lived in Charmstone, the hamlet has been a constant bustle of activity between quaint little stores, an energetic college population, various festivals, and a willingness all the townies have to walk everywhere rather than use a car. Seeing the town mostly vacant of humans and creatures warded in safely behind the gates of the Viridity campus leaves Ella feeling pensive.

That feeling intensifies when she finds herself gathered in the town square with a score of creatures willing to fight, half of the town council, and the majority of the Goodfellows. There's maybe fifty of them all together, mostly made up of the werewolves on the police force, a handful of ghouls, a smattering of trolls, and the odd faerie willing to lend a hand. She spots Benji in the crowd, too, as well as a couple of druids and some of the stronger hedge witches.

Not that Ella deigns herself an expert on this sort of thing, but she estimates that the gathered troops are a paltry force at best - like the equivalent of farmers fighting with pitchforks. These aren't people who have ever really _needed_ to fight or learn anything beyond basic self-defense. And right now, the task of shoving people through a bootcamp to make sure they don't _die_ seems totally insurmountable.

By the way Tony crosses his arms over his chest, expression set in a stony moue with his jaw flexing minutely, Ella guesses that her mate has drawn a similar conclusion. He glances down at her with a strained tension. "Strategy still the same?" he checks.

The strategy is the barest sketches of a plan, something they'd stayed up talking about into the wee hours of the morning, arguing and debating and shifting ideas around into a semblance of something that made sense. Knowing James' motives had at least helped there; the way they figured it, James likely had _three_ targets in Charmstone. Ella, Merlynn, and the powerful ley lines that are probably necessary to finish his transfusion of siphoned magic.

Of course, they also suspect that Ella is the primary target. If she's out of the way, it will be much easier for James to get to Merlynn and the leylines. And guessing _that_ definitely meant something for the strategy. The question of where to place people trickled down from that important assumption. Ella had to be away from the action and as much as Tony _vehemently_ didn't like it, that meant she got to be bait.

Looking out at the loosely fathered crowd, Ella says, "Nothing's changed."

Through their bond, she can feel how Tony does his best to smother his irritation - he really doesn't like the strategy. Neither does Ella. But there wasn't really a way around it, not without taking a different kind of risk that wouldn't be so easy to recover from.

She wonders when she'll have to stop gambling with her life. Soon, hopefully.

Tony dips his chin in acknowledgement, green eyes hard like flint, and makes off to go relay the bare bones of the strategy to the town leaders. She catches his elbow before he can go, lifting herself onto her toes to press a firm kiss to his mouth in a silent good-bye. Having been trained by his uncle to be a lethal fighter, Tony will be directly involved in making sure the other werewolves - and the ghouls and trolls - will be able to at least fend for themselves. She knows he isn't happy about any of this, and she refuses to let him leave wordlessly when neither of them know when James will strike.

When she pulls back, Tony's expression has softened. Ella pushes an errant curl off his forehead, a wry tilt to her lips. "Don't do anything dumb," she tells him.

Tony rolls his eyes. "I should be saying that to you," he retorts.

Ella arches both brows. "Me? No, I'm only going to be teaching a couple of spells. Nothing to worry about."

Tony kisses her forehead. "I always worry," he murmurs. And then he is gone, hustling through the crowd toward his mother and Stefan - showing his aptitude to do what is necessary.

Ella watches him go, staring after the outline of his shoulders for a long moment. She can't place a word on how she feels, caught somewhere between dread and anticipation and a banked sort of agitation. She just knows that she doesn't like any of this, loathes that other people have to be involved when really it should only be Ella dealing with the threat of James.

It is - of course - Peter who breaks her out of her reverie. "Man, I thought he'd never leave," he whines, trotting around from behind Ella so he can look down at her with lapis lazuli eyes wide with anticipation. "So? What's the deal?"

Ella stares at him, unimpressed. "What are you talking about?"

He gestures wildly. "I heard from Bree who heard from Jane who heard from Alec who said that you totally have the deets of this situation of epic fuckery through some kind of magical voodoo. _So spill_."

Ella does, outlining James and his motives with a blunt sort of bleakness, quirking a brow at Peter when he just kind of stares at her after she's finished.

Finally, Peter releases a gust of air, his shoulders drooping. "Immortality? That's it? How _lame!_ "

"Peter, be serious."

"I am being serious! I am seriously baffled as to why you're so threatened by this noob, dude! Chasing after immortality suggests a certain lack of creativity, you know? It's boring."

Ella scowls at him incredulously. "Are you seriously offended by the Big Bad's lack of flair?"

"How can you _not_ be offended?" he demands, equally as shocked.

"For fuck's sake!" she snaps, flicking him on the forehead. "Peter-"

"No, El, _really_!" he cuts in earnestly, pushing her hand away from his face. "Think about it! He just wants to live forever and his ultimate plan to doing that is, what, mass genocide? I'm pretty sure that idea has already been copyrighted!"

"What are you _talking_ about?"

"Well, it's just like, _every_ super _villain ever_ always goes for immortality, always scared so shitless of their own demise that they simply _must_ live forever. And that's just unoriginal. And you're too much of a badass to be hemmed in by the guy ripping off Voldemort's whole schtick."

Ella snorts. "He's also gunning for absolute power."

"Oh." Peter pauses, seeming to absorb that. "Well, that _does_ help make some sense out of his frankly convoluted master plan and that whole vengeance for his forefather thing. And no offense, El, but I'd want to take you out too, if I were him. Nobody likes competition."

Ella scoffs, but she also gets Peter's point. To James, that's all Ella really is at the end of the day - competition.

"So, what's the plan?"

Ella glances at Tony, watching as he begins to gather people around him - just as she is about to do with all of the magically inclined people in the town square. Her lips slide into a smirk. "We have a few ideas…"

* * *

 **A/N: Ah, Peter. Always breaking the fourth wall and saying what we're all thinking.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	219. part 15: 11: bad fortune slipping away

**eleven**

 **bad fortune slipping away**

* * *

Ella takes a single step backward, tucking her smaller knife down into her boot as she admires her handiwork. She's been fiddling with the warding around the Viridity campus on and off for a couple of days, trying to weave her own protections and failsafes into wards that are a few hundred years old. The campus has always been well-guarded, drawing from the ley line convergence right in the center of the college, and has always made Ella think of an old fortress with its iron and stone gates. But even knowing that Viridity is warded more tightly than Fort Knox, Ella had felt compelled to add her own flair - an urge definitely driven by the fact that _family_ would be taking refuge on campus until further notice.

As it is, between the normal college students - all creatures or humans threaded with potential - and the stragglers of creatures who had elected to stay in town even if they weren't going to fight, the campus is positively overcrowded at the moment. Given that most dorms are already fully housed, the townies have taken to making residence in the lecture halls, a feat made easier by the start of Spring Break and the cancellation of classes until further notice. Convenient, that.

Ella draws her eyes away from idly observing the campus courtyards amassed with creatures milling about. She doesn't know what she expected to feel - nostalgia, maybe - but she looks at all those lifelines crisscrossing over themselves and thinks, _I have to protect them_. Because she knows what will happen to them if James and The Order get their hands on these creatures, these _people_. And it isn't anything good. It's the stuff straight out of nightmares and so twisted by a blind sort of ambition that it epitomizes evil.

Ella looks at the freshly-carved sigil sitting starkly in the towering limestone fence and she is satisfied. Once it's activated, nothing short of both her blood and magic will be able to break the wards unless its from the inside of campus. And that'll have to do.

She turns her back to the campus once she hears the distinct rattling of Carlisle's old white Volkswagen bug turning onto the campus drive, breaks whining to a stop a few feet from where Ella stands. From the car emerges Carlisle and Esme, each looking stiff and weary, and Merlynn, who looks as lost as ever, if not less wan than the last time Ella saw her. Carlisle pops the boot of the car, revealing cases of water, paper bags of non-perishable foods, and a welcome selection of basic first aid supplies, along with duffle bags she suspects are packed with clothes and toiletries. It's clearly too much for three people. Ella supposes Carlisle and Esme must have thought ahead and packed extras, just in case anything was needed since Ella made it _very_ clear nobody would be leaving campus until all this bullshit was over.

Especially since she was planning on locking everyone in very soon.

"Cutting it close to the deadline," Ella announces after she's had her fill of watching Carlisle try to juggle boxes and bags. She rolls her eyes and flicks her fingers, levitating all the supplies out of the car to just beyond the front gates of the college.

Carlisle sighs with an air of long-suffering, hands on his hips. "Hello to you too, love. Thanks for the help, though we would have been fine."

Esme smiles softly, placing a hand on Carlisle's shoulder. "We thought it best to leave nothing to chance. Are we the last to arrive?"

"Almost," Ella answers. She doesn't mention that the Student Center literally has a storage full of enough supplies to take care of the entire campus for at least a few weeks if necessary. It's a nice thought to bring supplies and all; plus, Ella knows that Carlisle has _reservations_ about the hatchet-job plan that Ella has cooked up. She doesn't want to start an argument about being a few minutes late. So instead she says, "Go ahead and go in, find a place to bunk. I'll be closing the gates in a few minutes, so…"

Carlisle hesitates, the corners of his eyes tight and his mouth turned downward. But then Esme shakes her head at him and he seems to visibly bite his tongue to hold back whatever protest he'd been about to voice, protests that she's probably heard before from Tony. Carlisle clears his throat, pulls Ella into a quick hug, and tells her to _stay safe_ , and then he and Esme are walking into the safe haven that the Viridity campus represents.

Which leaves Ella alone with Merlynn, who wilts a bit under Ella's scrutiny. Ella twists her lips, a single brow rising just a bit. "Penny for your thoughts?"

Merlynn drops her sunlight-bright eyes to her feet, shoulders rounding nervously. "Ah, well - that is, I don't need to be guarded specifically if it will hinder your efforts to-"

"I'm just going to stop you right there," Ella cuts in bluntly. "Knowing what we do about James, it wouldn't take a genius to guess that you might be a target of his - and the last thing I need is a complication where you end up in the line of fire or worse, under his control again. There's going to be enough magicians in his forces without just handing him another one. So, yeah, you _do_ need to be guarded specifically. Plus, with your magic still weakened, it isn't as if you could actually fight. This is the best place for you."

Merlynn frowns, the freckles on her nose scrunching together as she thinks through before she nods hesitantly. "Alright…But I don't need to be guarded," she tries to insist. "I can sense how strong these wards are and I don't think even James could break through them without a lot of trouble."

"Again, a risk I can't take," Ella retorts, leaving no room for argument. She does get where Merlynn is coming from, though; her aunt is carrying around massive, heaping piles of guilt and being placed in a situation where she thinks she's taking a fighter away from Ella's efforts isn't helping anything. So Ella sighs, rolling her shoulders to keep them loose. "Look, if it makes you feel better, the guard I've got lined up was going to duck out of the fight anyway. He's a pacifist, or something, okay, so none of this impending doom is his thing. He was already planning on looking out for the students on campus since he's a professor here, so keeping an eye on you isn't any extra burden."

Merlynn nods, her shoulders relaxing.

Ella barely withholds a grimace; comforting and reassuring people is never going to be _her thing_. All the better that she plans to be on the front lines, where none of that nuanced human interaction would be present. She just doesn't have the patience for it lately.

Out of the corner of her eye, a thin, dark lifeline stretches into view, connected to an eagle owl swooping down from the trees. Interested, Ella turns her full attention to the large bird as its shape begins to blur, shadows coalescing around it as the shape grows larger and indistinct as it approaches the ground; then, the dark shape shifts into a familiar, broad human form and two moccasin-clad feet touch the ground as shadows in the shape of a bear seep into the grass just underfoot. For all that she's known Black is a shaman - a shapeshifter who can use magic - she's never actually seen him shapeshift. It was done so smoothly and gracefully and with such precise control of magic that for a brief moment, all of Ella's banked irritation is replaced by admiration.

She has a thought that belongs to a normal girl. _That was really cool._

And yet, Merlynn appears to disagree. The change is so subtle that Ella almost misses is, but as Black takes long-legged strides in their direction, Merlynn shrinks in on herself and blanches, the color leeching out of her face to make her freckles stand out in stark contrast and her wildly curly, bright copper hair look more fiery than usual. She's scared; Ella can see that plain as day. The question is as to _why_ , though. Sure, William Black is an impressive figure with a quietly imposing kind of presence, tall and well-built with skin of toasted russet and inky black hair tumbling over his shoulders. He's obviously intimidating, all calm and impassive with those fathomlessly dark eyes. Objectively speaking, of course. Ella hasn't ever personally felt intimidated by Black, but she could understand how skittish Merlynn would take one look at him and want to find the nearest place to hide. Sort of.

In any case, any empathy she has is squashed by more pressing matters. As her old professor draws nearer, Ella jerks her chin in his direction and says to Merlynn, "This is Black, your new babysitter."

Merlynn's eyes are round in her pale face, her breath stuttering in her chest, along with the words coming out of her mouth. "He's - He's a-"

Something _clicks_ in Ella's mind as she realizes belatedly that Merlynn isn't intimidated by Black - she's _scared_ of him. For a moment, Ella feels truly stupid. How had it not occurred to her that Black's dark eyes - and possibly his equally dark aura, which Merlynn can detect even if Ella cannot - would be a dead giveaway of his heritage? And how could she not even entertain the possibility that Merlynn would be able to _recognize_ what Black is on sight? That Merlynn would harbor a fear of _all_ descendants of Mordred and not just James and The Order? It's a massive oversight.

Shit.

But there's no going back, now. There's been so much strategy into placing everyone at just the right points and Ella _needs_ Black on the Viridity campus. If Ella is taken out, then just on sheer power and the willingness to do what needs to be done, Black is probably the next most formidable person left in Charmstone. And that means that Black needs to be looking out for the civilians - looking out for her family - and be ready to get people the hell out of dodge.

Ella needs to be practical about this. She can't afford to coddle her aunt.

"He's a shamanistic descendant of Mordred and a trustworthy ally? Yes, he is. Thanks for noticing," Ella says curtly, crossing her arms over her chest as she shifts her focus to Merlynn. "He's also the best last line of defense in town. Nothing will happen to you with Black watching over you, Merlynn."

Merlynn looks at her beseechingly. "But he's…."

"Loyal to myself," Black asserts as he comes to stand near the gate of the campus. "I have renounced all ties to my father's family and while that may not be any comfort to you, I hope you can at least believe that I intend for no harm to come to you while you are under my protection."

"And it's not like you have a choice," Ella adds unapologetically. "I need him here and I need you safe with everyone else. This is the best solution. As long as you're on campus, you can stay as far away from Black as you want - but you _will_ be on campus and so will he."

Merlynn fidgets, darting her eyes between Ella and Black, likely seeing that they're both equally as implacable about these circumstances. She nods meekly. "I understand. I'll just…" Merlynn trails off, edging in a wide arc around Black until she crosses the campus border.

Ella watches her disappear with her hands curled into fists where they are tucked beneath her arms. Once Merlynn is out of sight, Ella shakes off the heaviness resting in her mind and pins Black with a look tinged with the barest hint of apology. "Thanks for coming," she says after a moment. "Are we clear on the plan?"

Black holds up a single hand. "Yes," he says simply.

Tension unwinds in Ella's chest. She meant what she said - Black _is_ a trustworthy ally and he had no qualms about agreeing to be a glorified babysitter at Ella's request. After Black has closed the gates of the college behind him, Ella releases a breath and turns back to the sigil carved into the stone. Tracing her thumb over the sharp edge of a rune, a burst of magic charges the sigil and activates the impenetrable wards around the campus, creating a visibly glassy silvery dome of protection.

She steps back, admiring the strength of the magic for a moment, confident that the ancient wards and her added layers of protection will withstand any assault. And with everyone who hasn't elected to fight having vacated the town to camp at Viridity, it is one less worry weighing her down.

It feels - for the first time - that all the bad fortune is slipping away.

Naturally, that dash of good fortune doesn't last long.

She never thought it would, honestly. All this time preparing for war has been rushed - hastily training people so they can fight back against the dragur and The Order, harried arrangements to usher people to safety, a tactical plan that depends more on luck than anything else. It's like she can't catch a break to breathe, let alone even think, and the second that everything seems to be going right, that's when things start spinning out of control. Again.

And she doesn't feel even remotely prepared.

Too antsy to catch more than a few hours of sleep while they're all _waiting_ for The Order to show up, Ella has taken to flitting between the various huddles of creatures around Charmstone - faeries and ghouls have taken residence in the forest, Emet has returned to his source of power at Beacon Lake, werewolves are gathered in groups of four at the town borders, and the few magic-wielders have been directed to stay close to the ley line convergences. Ella checks in on everyone each day, making sure that all needs ar emet while they are all essentially camping outside and waiting to fight for their lives. Any time she is near Tony, he gets this complicated expression on his face and she can almost feel his heart swelling with affection _and_ twisting with concern at the same time.

He thinks that she's driving herself up a wall. He's probably right. Never in her life has Ella been so anxious - and she _loathes_ the waiting, she really does. She'd rather be hunting James down than twiddling her thumbs. It isn't possible, of course, even if she knew where he was.

But as it is, with Ella teleporting across town every few hours, she's been relying on her connection to Raven to keep a lookout for any sign of approach. Ella is betting that leading an army of undead creatures isn't going to be a subtle enterprise, so she'd sent Raven out to circle the town and surrounding areas as often as possible. Surprisingly - and thankfully - Alec had taken a similar tact, summoning his white stag familiar from his body and sending Akira out to patrol for the enemy as well. Having two sets of eyes is better than one, especially since the stag familiar doesn't require rest like Raven does and because Akira can move almost at the speed of light.

Alec's familiar is the one who first alerts them - and Alec in turn alerts the rest of them. Ella's phone buzzes in her pocket with a notification from Jasper's app, the scope of her focus narrowing to a pinprick. She is already on the move as she sends out her own messages of silvery fire to all the fighters scattered around town _. They're coming_ , she tells everyone.

And from there, the world is a flurry of activity.

Ella's first stop is for a defensive purpose. The northern most leyline convergence is also the largest and as such, it is where Alec has set up shop for a banishment ritual centered around a huge hunk of quartz that he spent hours carving into. By the time she _pops_ into the clearing, Alec is already sitting cross-legged on the ground with Akira loping around to guard his back, his eyes half-shut in concentration.

This was the compromise they reached. Alec didn't want to fight - didn't want to have to kill - but he also couldn't in good conscience just sit back and hide with the other refugees when he _did_ have abilities that the others didn't. And when he knew that The Order was going to be after him one way or another. A conversation strife with opposing viewpoints had led to this: Alec will aid the other magic-wielders in Charmstone by performing this light-centered ritual. Ideally, the ritual should knock out any dark witches, warlocks, or druids The Order is bringing with them, leaving only dark magicians to deal with. Since all they have are rough estimates, Ella had immediately thought that this would _at least_ level the playing field. After all, to her knowledge, there are only _three_ living magician descendants of Mordred that they will be up against - a cousin of James' called Laurent, Ephraim Black, and James himself. It isn't ideal, but only dealing with three powerful magicians is better than dealing with those magicians, and the draugr, _and_ any other magic-users attached to The Order. Maybe if they're lucky, the banishment ritual will slow down the dark magicians.

So Ella kneels down across from Alec, her voice low and urgent. "Are you ready?"

Alec dips his chin, reaching forward to clasp his hands over the faintly glowing quartz. "Ready when you are," he says, closing his eyes in concentration.

Ella's hands fall on top of Alec's, her own eyes closing as she reaches _deep_ into her connection with the ley lines of Charmstone, a connection she unwillingly possesses, a scar she will bear forever from the hag's horrid ritual. Now, though, she is somewhat thankful for the ties she has to the land - it makes it so much easier to delve into the natural magical currents and swathe Alec's quartz with that energy and ask - demand - plead - for the land to respond to Alec's intent. Ella helps to charge the quartz until she can feel it burning beneath Alec's hands, and then she pulls back, heart racing to see Alec's eyes wide open and unseeing, a burning sunlight golden color that sears into her retinas.

She glances up at Akira, taking in the watchful stance of the stag, and steps back a few paces. "Don't let anything happen to him," she urges the white stag, to which the ghostly familiar snorts. Mouth twitching in humor, Ella easily calls up a protective ward around Alec, hiding him from detection.

She's done all she could do here - and she cannot linger.

She can feel it in the air, the way the forest has fallen so silent and still, the way the wind feels _charged_ with _something_ that makes her stomach clench and her spine tingle. It's time. This is what it's all been leading up to - this one day, this hour, this moment.

Ella plucks at her connection to Tony and _pops_ away, appearing at his side in the space of a breath. He, like his mother, has already shifted into the beautiful timber of his wolf form, his lupine verdant eyes fierce and bright as he registers her appearance. His muzzle butts against her thigh as she reaches down for one of her knives and Ella briefly lets her hand pass over the thick warmth of his fur. When Ella straightens, armed with her knives, her focus is again rekindled.

She and Tony have already shared their affections in preparation for this moment. There is nothing left to say to each other, nothing that can't wait until all of this is over.

Ahead, just beyond the town border, Ella can detect a long, dark line of movement cresting over the last hill. Brows furrowing, she taps into Raven's vision for a moment, before pulling back with a grim air. "We're surrounded," she announces into the air, not talking directly to anyone but knowing that all the werewolves lining the entrance to the town can hear her perfectly.

Elisabeth Masen, her wolf's eyes more golden than her son's, makes a low noise that Ella's mind translates as inquisitive.

"Not quite a hundred at this point," Ella answers after a beat, ignoring the curious swiveling heads of the werewolves in the larger Masen Pack. "Half are heading toward the forest near Beacon Lake. Emet and Aro will have their work cut out for them."

Time will only tell, of course, if the werewolves will be similarly outmatched. But Ella thinks that James had made an error in strategy - by sending the draugr out in sets of three, he'd given Charmstone an advantage. Now they know how to kill the draugr _and_ now there are fewer in his army of the undead. It's the slightest of an upper hand, but Ella will take it.

"Oh man," she hears Peter quietly whine. "I hope we don't die. I can't die without knowing how the Marvel Cinematic Universe ends."

Ella rolls her eyes, looking at Peter over her shoulder. "We aren't going to die."

"Famous last words," Bree mutters.

Later, Ella will really wish Bree hadn't said that.

The draugr are the first to arrive, bulldozing right past Charmstone's wards with a wrecking ball force that leaves the ground shaking. Immediately, the werewolves - a dozen, maybe - launch into action. The sounds of snarls and growls fill the air, along with the rumbling of the draugr, which grow larger and meaner and fight so _easily_ that a pang of fear threads through all of the lifelines that Ella can see. It is chaos. Werewolves armed with all the tools Ella can supply work in teams, each taking on a single draugr at a time; Tony and Elisabeth are strong enough to work alone, but they are calculated attacks, vicious and methodical and above all, _slow_ in comparison to the swarm of dragur encroaching on Charmstone's territory.

The gore and violence of it all is breathtaking. Ella finds herself knocking elbows with Peter as they face down a pair of draugr. She launches one of her mistletoe-laden knives at the draugr, the squelch of blade slipping into eye socket easily ignored over the bellowing of the creature. Peter is fast for all that he is lanky, ducking and dodging and perching himself on the shoulders of the other draugr, his claws sinking into putrid flesh. He strains and a head goes flying - but the victory is short lived, as the other draugr turns on Peter once Ella summons her knife back. She is prepared to assist Peter - and she would have - but a spinning cobalt bead of magic hurtles in her direction - and Ella holds out her hand, dispersing the attack with the force of her own magic almost a hair too late.

Fuck. Her eyes skim over the group coming up behind the draugr, doing a quick headcount of the witches and warlocks all dressed in dark leathers and with malice in their eyes. There's at least two dozen of them marching ahead of another group, which seems to be taking its sweet ass time in arriving.

James is in that second group - he is letting The Order pave the way for an easy victory. She knows it. She can _feel_ the voided bleakness of his magic even this far away and it feels so much like the _wrongness_ and the warped _sickness_ of the hag's magic that she struggles not to heave. She can't afford to be distracted by her trauma.

The Order seem to be focused on Ella - naturally, she supposes. Ella turns away from Peter's fight, noting that Bree and Mickie have joined him after felling their own opponent, and stares down at the approaching warlocks and witches. They hurl spells at her even as they walk forward and Ella deflects each one, doing her best to guide the dispersed magic right back into the ley lines. She's biding her time.

Just a few more feet.

Her lungs tighten briefly as the first warlock steps over the ward boundary of the town.

Come on, come on, come on - _yes_.

It's like a shockwave made of magic - a distant _whoosh_ from Alec's point in the north, which spreads out in a glorious ring of golden-white like ripples in a pond, instantly flattening the hoard of The Order's witches and warlocks and leaves the air sparking with electric zaps of magic.

Ella's responding grin is wide and victorious, all teeth and flint in her molten-silver eyes. It worked. Alec's banishment ritual has performed just as promised and has taken out the majority of The Order - it's even left some of the draugr confused enough that they make easy targets for the werewolves, who continue to fight. She'd bet anything that the fae and the trolls in the forest have also taken advantage of this brief reprieve from Alec's spell.

For those few precious seconds, everything seems to be going their way. They could _win_ if this keeps up. They could all survive.

An enraged yell choruses from the group still approaching from down the road - James. In a second, her elation is dashed, traded in for a lethal sort of awareness. She spares a glance over her shoulder again, palming her knives in each hand. "That's my cue," she says to her friends - her family - as her eyes seek out Tony.

He's fighting tooth and claw, the richness of his fur half-covered in ichor and blood. He dances back on the pads of his paws, eyes slanting at her over a space littered in the evidence of war, and through their mate bond she feels a swell of courage. She takes heart in the fact that he isn't grievously injured and glances back at their friends.

"Oh, sure, go have your showdown with The 40 Year Old Psychopath. We've got this," Peter says flippantly, wiping blood from his brow with the back of his hand.

Bree huffs at him. "Was that a movie reference? Seriously? _Right now_?"

Peter eyes her in mock offense, catching his breath. "You ask as if you didn't know The 40 Year Old Virgin is a _classic_."

"Is it?" Mickie asks skeptically.

"It totally is," Peter says seriously. "In fact, I -"

"Shit, _duck!_ " Bree shouts, shoving Peter away just as a new draugr swings at him.

Peter spins around with wide eyes as Mickie scrambles on the draugr's other side, brandishing her blood-stained claws. "Phew," Peter sighs. "Okay, maybe now isn't the best time to talk about movies."

 _"You think_?" Bree demands incredulously.

Ella might have spared a second to pipe in - but then her eyes catch on someone she hadn't seen before. Someone thin and short and scattered in freckles beneath lank, dark red curls - a little girl, nothing more than a wisp of a child, being towed by the elbow closer and closer to the fight.

Maggie. It couldn't be anyone else. Even from this distance, she looks _so much_ like Merlynn. And even from this distance, Ella can see the dark bruises littering her frail arms, bruises in the shape of handprints that Ella has seen countless times before on her own skin.

An icy rage settles between Ella's ribs.

She _pops_ right in front of the last group with little fanfare. Her mind notes that there are four people in total and she easily assigns names for them; on the left, the broad man with strong features must be Ephraim Black, the mad magician scientist; on the right, a slender fellow with watery eyes must be Laurent; and in the center, with his hand white-knuckled around Maggie's elbow, is James.

The Overseer.

The man responsible for all the shitty bad fortune in Ella's life.

She knew what he looked like, obviously, from Merlynn's memories. Dark blond hair, average height, a mean, terribly dark blue gaze, with a sneer set on his face that looks permanent. Something about him is different from the last time Merlynn saw him, though. There are dark shadows around his eyes and a sticky flush to his face, which contrasts oddly with the paleness of the rest of him. He looks _ill_. Strained. Older than he should, but also as unchanging as when Merlynn first met him - like he's stuck in time.

Ella had _thought_ \- maybe - but the idea was so laughably insane that she'd immediately tried to write it off. Nobody was that crazy or afraid of death that they would _actually_ keep themselves alive by siphoning massive amounts of magic.

Except - well, except it seems like her suspicions might be right.

 _Goddamnit, I did not sign up for this_.

James is glaring at her balefully, dark and heated as if he could incinerate her on the spot. "What have you _done_ to my Order _,_ you wretched aberration?" he demands hatefully.

It isn't exactly what she expected his first words to her to be.

Of course, their first face-to-face meeting was always going to be all kinds of awkward given the fact that they've been fighting against each other from a distance for over two years now - he using puppets to do his bidding and she deflecting him at every turn even as she pieces together _why_ and _what_ and _how_. His abhorrence for her has always been one-sided, a lopsided arrangement where he hates her for being part of a prophecy _or something_ and she just tries to stay alive.

For so long, her enemy has been without a face - and now that he has one and she can see him, Ella can't manage to muster anything more for James than disgust. She just wants all this _over_ and _done_.

She doesn't want to be fighting anymore.

"Let her go," Ella bites out in response, tone dark and chilling. She hardly sounds like herself, like there's an echo of magic seeping through every syllable that passes her lips. She speaks like she's offering a last warning instead of a first one, and she thinks that it's audible, because Ephraim and Laurent each go still and Maggie looks up at her with deep ocher eyes.

"Give up my prize willingly?" James scoffs, shaking Maggie's arm like a ragdoll. He scowls at her with vitriol, poison spewing from his chapped lips. "You are _nothing_ more than an obstacle that will no longer stand in my way. Get rid of her!"

His last shouted order is directed to Laurent and Ephraim, who respond immediately by calling up their magic -

But Ella barely even registers it, because her eyes are still locked onto Maggie.

A child. Another little girl caught up in this pointless fucking _mess_. And it is pointless, isn't it? Driven by - what - greed? Fear of death? Sheer stupid evil? Does it even _matter_?

Ella looks at Maggie and she sees herself, lost and scared and doomed.

She always wished someone had saved her.

Maybe she can save Maggie now.

Ella holds out her hand to Maggie - and Maggie dredges up some kind of will to fight, because she starts squirming away from James, her arm pulling away from her shoulder as she releases childish yells. Somehow, Maggie manages to reach forward enough that her small hand touches Ella's -

Oh.

There is a vibration, a boom, a wave of magic that spreads between their hands and outwards - and it is enough of a shock that James releases Maggie and Maggie stumbles into Ella, her face hidden in Ella's stomach.

It hadn't hurt, is Ella's first thought. Her second is that, for just a moment, her magic clashing against Maggie's was enough to dwarf that blackhole void of James' magic. And her third thought is the fact that James is _pissed_ , crackling black magic gathering between his palms, mirrored on either side by Ephraim and Laurent's spells -

Spells that are released all at the same moment, hurtling right at Maggie and Ella - or rather, right at Maggie's back where the girl is curved into Ella's body.

Ella doesn't _think_. She reacts, an instinct that she's always had prompting her to spin so that she takes the brunt of all three spells instead of Maggie -

Protecting, because that's what Ella has always done.

Ella lurches forward when the spells hit her, breath forced out of her lungs, neck snapping forward, every inch of her body going numb, all pins and needles and blood on her lips - and there's a pained howl somewhere in the distance - how strange -

But it doesn't hurt. Not really. Numbness isn't pain. Numbness is…nothingness.

A lot like the nothingness that Ella is spiraling toward, black creeping at the edges of her vision and the blissful silence as the world just…

s

l

i

p

s

away.

* * *

 **A/N: I definitely wrote a lot of this chapter listening to PJ Harvey on repeat and _Good Fortune_ might be my favorite song at this exact moment. You guys don't even want to know the playlist I have going for this story - the word eclectic comes to mind, to say the least.**

 **Also, the length of this chapter? Just….sort of happened. I was shocked, okay, but I'm also happy with it. Forgive the typos!**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	220. part 15: 12: like a legend of a phoenix

**twelve**

 **like a legend of a phoenix**

* * *

Dying never hurts quite as much as it probably should.

Shouldn't death be agony instead of peace? Because that is all Ella feels as her heart slows and her breath leaves her body and her mind swirls down to a curious tunnel of brightness - all she feels is _calm_.

But wait - brightness?

Hadn't it been dark before?

It's a strange sensation to be bodiless. Ella _knows_ she has hands and feet, _knows_ that she has run and jumped and _lived_ in the confines of a physical body, but she cannot feel them…wherever she is. The afterlife? No, surely not. But maybe. She is weightless and painless, drifting along a current of otherness toward something she cannot name. She - _Ella_ \- her soul, the very bright center of her being, is parted from her body, as if she doesn't have one, and the feeling of opening her not-eyes reminds her vividly of a memory she'd almost forgot.

Oh, right. The astral plane. Yes, that had been the last time she'd been out-of-body. And though the _feeling_ is similar, the place where she drifts is not the same. Before, it was dark; now, there is nothing but brightness. Not necessarily _white_ , but simply _brightness_. Color has no meaning here, wherever _here_ is.

Is this an astral plane? Is it the Veil that Alice can communicate across?

The answer comes from an equally bodiless source, alongside a vastness of power that would have left her limbs quivering if she had any. _No_. No, this is not the astral plane. No, this is not the Veil to the Otherside.

This is Magic.

Ella is… _in_ Magic?

No, Ella _is_ Magic. Or Magic is Ella.

She doesn't understand. There's a certain incongruence to the ideas, like they are opposing each other even as she observes rather the opposite. Yet she can't make sense of it. Maybe she's not supposed to make sense of it. No, of course she isn't. Magic is all about _feeling_ \- and there is no logic in feeling.

That still leaves the question of _why_ she is with Magic. She certainly recalls doing something that should have killed her - and she is actually pretty sure she _is_ dead, because the feeling of _not being_ is one that she is actually very familiar with. This isn't the first or the second or even the third time she has died. Nor will it be the last.

Alright. So, dead but not-dead.

Why? Why not one or the other? Why be stuck in the middle, floating along with Magic toward _something_ , some brighter spot of brightness, so bright it would blind her if she had eyes.

Again, the answer comes from that unfathomable bodiless force. Magic answers in a slew of picture-words, an explanation as soundless as it is boundless. Magic has taken her here to explain why Ella had been Chosen and to explain that Ella had been Chosen from the very beginning.

Oh.

Yes, she understands now.

So long ago, Mordred had violated Magic and Magic had asked Merlin and Morgan le Fey to right Mordred's wrongs. That sounds familiar; she's heard a similar explanation before. What she had not known, however, was that Magic had promised a reward to Merlin and Morgan in trade for defeating Mordred. Merlin and Morgan had been lovers once, and knowing the strife caused by Morgan's inability to bear Merlin's children, they had been promised by Magic that one day their bloodlines would finally produce a child - a child that would be tasked with bringing peace to the line of Mordred once more.

Ella is that child.

And James is the destruction rising once again in the line of Mordred. His plight is one inspired as much by bitterness as it is by fear. In a series of flashing not-memories, Ella comes to understand that James had been raised in the knowledge that Mordred was maligned and discriminated against for having dark magic; she learns that James had watched his own father pass of sickness not even magic could cure; she learns that James became obsessed with his great-grandfather, with Mordred, and vowed to defeat Death in Mordred's stead. James promised to live forever and make the world rue the day Magic scorned Mordred. James has been living for a very long time, borrowing the blood-magic of creatures to prolong his own life - just so he would not die like his father, just so he would be as great as Mordred.

Magic knows this and Magic considers James' crimes far worse than any offense Mordred committed.

Yes, she gets it. It all makes sense.

Everything - its all in her head now. She understands what happened with her ancestors; she understands the prophecy; she understands James' motivations. She even understands why Magic had allowed Maggie's conception. Because Maggie _shouldn't_ exist by the very laws that prevented Merlin and Morgan le Fey from having children, and yet Maggie lives because Magic _allows_ her to live, just the same as Magic allows _Ella_ to live. Maggie must survive so that she can fix what Mordred and James had broken in the line of dark magicians.

Magic has planned for this all along.

Ella is the child of the prophecy who would pave a peaceful road forward for Mordred's heir.

No wonder Ella had just given her life to protect Maggie. It had been instinct - yes - but it had also been by Magic's design.

Yes, Ella understands it all.

And she's ready to go back now.

No sooner than the thought passes through her mind does Ella begin to _feel_ her body again - and it isn't exactly a good feeling. Everything _hurts_ , from her scalp to her toes, like she's been electrocuted and wrapped in barbed wire and doused in saltwater. Which, considering the spells that hadn't managed to kill her _only_ by the grace of Magic, shouldn't be all that far from the truth. That much magic from three different casters would have left anyone else in a pile of ash.

Lucky Ella isn't anyone else, really.

Ella drags her gritty eyes open, vision fuzzy as she gets her bearings. She's standing - no, she's kneeling, the front of her body hunched protectively over Maggie's slight form, the force of the spells at her back having somehow forced her onto her knees. She drags in a rattling breath, blinking rapidly as her ears stop ringing. She becomes aware of Maggie's fearful whimpers at the same time as she becomes aware of the shock-slackened faces of her friends staring at her from a little ways away.

Everything seems to have stopped for however long Ella was… _with Magic_. Even the draugr have come to a standstill, their bulging eyes looking at her with blank dumbness that might have been comical in any other situation.

Except that Ella knows why everyone is staring at her.

She should be dead. Only she isn't. And like a phoenix, Ella seems to have been reborn stronger than before - she can feel it in the magic pulsing through her veins, an extra boost from Magic that quickly soothes away all the hurt and confusion and fills Ella's mind with a singular purpose.

"This ends now," she declares beneath her breath.

Maggie stills, twisting her neck around to gape up at Ella with wide ocher eyes. "Y-you're _alive_ ," she says tearfully.

Ella looks down at her cousin, immediately seeing shadows of herself in the little girl. Ella and Maggie are the same in so many ways, but none more obvious than that world-weariness that has etched itself on the face of the child. Ella's seen that weariness more than once in the mirror; she knows it well.

Ella arches a brow at Maggie. "I don't die easy," she says. And then Ella drops her arms from around Maggie and stands, turning around to face James with an expression of stony resolve. "Nice try," she tells him placidly, tilting her head even as she steps forward. "But didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to shoot first and ask questions later?"

If James is thrown by her survival, he doesn't show it. His is a thing of rage, none of it contained as he nearly froths at the mouth. "You arrogant annoyance, you won't be surviving for much longer-"

Ella releases the pent-up energy Magic had gifted her with and it bursts from her body with a faint _crackle_ , wrapping around her body and licking up her limbs in a series of cool silver flames. Her feet lift just barely off the ground, the magic thrumming through her _pounding_ between her ribs, strong enough to break her open. But her mind is curiously calm, all of her anger replaced for a supreme focus. In a way, she's almost out of her own mind with it, holding onto that thin edge of control by the skin of her teeth.

But she likes the naked fear on James' face when he looks up at her.

"You won't be saying that for long, old man."

His face turns puce in his rage. "By Mordred, you useless fucks, _kill her_ ," James shouts.

Ella smirks - and before Laurent or Ephraim can shoot off a spell, she is latching onto their tarnished lifelines and _pulling_ , snapping the wires and watching impassively as both dark magicians crumble to the ground. Dead. Just like that.

James calls up his magic, opening his mouth as if to cast a spell -

But Ella isn't paying attention to him anymore.

She is slowing time down to a crawl and _popping_ across the expanse of the battlefield. Weaving in between her friends and allies, Ella twists and turns, touching her hands to the deadened flesh of the draugr, her magic burning right through them. When she has been through the forest and circled back to where James is, she releases her hold on time -

As one, the draugr fall like dominos and Ella's lips spread into a wide, shark-like smile. "Your turn," she says to James. And her voice when she speaks, it sounds like there's two of her talking at once, the sound layered over itself.

James is seething with rage, the black void of his magic creeping up his veins, purpling his skin. He looks sickly, warping right in front of her eyes. It belatedly ocurrs to her that he must have already completed the transfusion from Ephraim's experiments. He might be stronger than ever before now.

"You think you can defeat me? Overcome _me_? You can't!" he snarls with bared teeth. "I am your pain, your heartache, your agony. I am your destruction! _You can't kill me!"_

Ella arcs a challenging brow, the silver glow of her irises seeping into the white of her eyes. "Want to bet?"

Because he might be stronger than ever before - but Ella has been blessed by Magic and reborn by Magic and for all of his power, he is nothing more than an ant compared to what's burning in her blood.

When James attacks, it is with a vengeful yell and an unleashing of all of his stolen magic, not so much a spell as just an outright display of shocking power. It makes her head spin, but not enough that she doesn't meet his force with her own. The clash is thunderous and blinding in intensity, an electrified void-black stream of magic smashing against sparking silver. And it is not unlike her magic forcing the shadow dimension closed, the way the magic trembles through her, encompassing everything, drowning all else out.

James is screaming all the sudden - in a vicious sort of pain as his skin begins to wither and husk, shrinking in around his body, which begins to peel away under the vast pressure. It's terrifying to see. She hadn't wanted to believe that magic could do that to a person, but she also can't manage to look away.

It is a kindness he probably doesn't deserve, but once Ella finds James' lifeline in all the magical chaos, she gives it a hard yank, snapping the lifeline in half and watching it shrivel up into nothing.

But Ella may be a killer, but she is anything but needlessly cruel.

And nobody should have to die being swallowed up by their own magic.

It feels like its over before it even really began, ending with Ella standing in a crater of destruction while ashes of a depraved magician scatter in the wind. Her mind is blank for a long moment, processing this strange idea that its all _over_. There is no more threat, no more waiting for the other shoe to drop. She'd fallen and risen up and remained the one left standing.

She hadn't actually believed it would happen.

She hadn't really expected to _survive_.

But by Magic, she had.

And with that thought, Ella's knees buckle as she swoons, listing to the side with the world blurring-spinning-twirling in front of her dizzy eyes.

She's unconscious before she even hits the ground.

* * *

 **A/N: One more chapter until the end! I have mixed feelings about this chapter, but I was tired of chewing on it so.**

 **As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	221. part 15: 13: all ends with beginnings

**thirteen**

 **all ends with beginnings**

* * *

Ella is - _different_.

She's always been different, for one reason or another. Too angry, too closed-off, too jagged-sharp around the edges; too much of an orphan, too much of a loner, too much of a hero; too much of a freak of nature and too little of anything to call her own. She's known it since she was little, stumbling through group homes like a pariah and throwing tantrums that made the things around her shatter into pieces. She's known it since she was a teenaged runaway, cold but not frozen, hungry but not starving, and with a pick-pocketing talent that only asked for a desperate wish to get what she wanted. She's known it since Carlisle found her, since she came to Charmstone, since she laid eyes on a timber wolf with golden-green eyes, since she met a would-be sister and friends that feel more like family. She's known it each time she just kept on _surviving_ against all the odds placed at her feet. She's known it since she learned that magic is _real_ and that _she is magic_.

Knowing is different from understanding, though.

And it's a visceral sort of knowledge that swims in her veins now. All the reasons she _thought_ she was different pale in comparison to the real explanation. Ella isn't just different and she isn't just magic. Ella is _chosen_. Ella _is_ Magic, as much as Magic _is_ Ella.

It makes all the difference in the aftermath.

She opens her eyes to a sundown sky streaked in vibrant lilac and azure and coral, blinking dusty ash from her eyes as she drags in greedy breaths. Every inch of her body, every single nerve, feels wrung out and over-sensitive, and yet Ella feels strangely - absurdly - _alive_ , imbued with strength and energy and a chest-tightening since of relief that would have thrown her to her feet if she hadn't already been laying down.

 _It's over_. That's her first coherent thought and it rings with an absolute sort of truth.

Her second thought is that it had been easy, in the end. Almost anti-climatic, really, so much so that it's actually kind of embarrassing that she'd _fainted_ right after James was done and dusted.

Her third thought is that she's getting _really_ tired of the whole dying-then-coming-back-to-life thing, especially when it twists Tony's face into that awful, tension-packed, heartbroken expression that makes her feel severed in half by guilt. There's no doubt in her mind that he _felt_ it when she died protecting Maggie - and she recalls him howling when their mate bond began to snap, the agony ripping through her mind even in memory. That their bond is intact now after she's been revitalized is a blessing from Magic.

There's a whole cacophony of sound as Ella finds her feet, a chatter of excitement and grunts of pain that filter through her ears as white noise. She's distantly aware that Peter is running around checking on people and that Elisabeth Masen's pack is in a tight-knit circle mourning a werewolf who fell during the battle and that Alec's familiar, Akira, is circling around Maggie's waifish form with both curiosity and protectiveness.

But mostly, the only thing Ella can focus on is Tony and the way it feels so blessedly _good_ to melt into his embrace. Like coming home. Like _truly_ breathing for the first time in a long time.

Ella closes her eyes, resting her forehead against the middle of Tony's chest. His arms tighten around her and his head dips, the point of his nose dragging against the arc of her cheek down to the bend of her neck. He's scenting her, making sure she's _okay_ even though by all rights he can sense that she is just fine. But this is his way and it isn't unpleasant or awkward. This is just Tony seeking wordless affirmation and she can practically feel the loosening of his muscles as he also registers the end.

And she knows there's countless things for them to do, because very rarely is anything ever _over_. They need to do something with the draugr corpses strewn about the forest; Ella has to go back to Viridity and unlock the campus wards; Maggie needs to be reunited with Merlynn; someone needs to take stock of the damage and the dead; Mayor Newton needs to be informed he can call off the fake evacuation; The Coterie needs to be contacted about the eradication of The Order, which is sure to be some bureaucratic nightmare; the list goes on and on and on. Ella knows without a shadow of a doubt that somehow, she's going to be in the middle of all of it and she's resigned to those obligations but - later.

Just a few more minutes to bask in being alive and hearing her wolf's heart thumping in his chest.

Several minutes later, Ella peels her eyes open and tilts her neck back, staring Tony square in the eye. He's streaked in drying blood and healing bruises, but he's never been more beautiful to her. Her fingers itch with a familiar need to draw him, to immortalize every detail on paper, from the wild curl of his burnt toffee hair, to the shiny-silver scar bisecting his left brow, to the vivid verdant of his eyes and the downward turn of his lips. One day, she silently vows, she will have entire sketchbooks filled with Tony Masen.

But for now, there is only a single thought on her mind and her mouth opens before she can hesitate.

"Marry me, Tony."

It's almost a demand - _almost_ , except for the pitch in her voice, the tiniest hint of uncertainty. God, but what the _fuck_ is she doing? Where did _that_ even come from? Except - well, except if she's honest, it's been on her mind how the magician's glass wound around her wrists and fingers has managed to leave her left ring finger bare. And it isn't as if they aren't already married, as recognized by werewolf customs, so them being young and traumatized doesn't even _really_ matter. It's just a human convention to find a ring and a white dress and make promises to Tony in front of people she loves almost as much as him.

But now _really_ isn't the time for being sentimental. Maybe Magic didn't bring her back _quite right_ this time. As if Ella weren't crazy enough already -

"Never thought you'd ask," Tony murmurs wryly, effectively cutting Ella's scattered thoughts off at the knee. There's a hint of a smirk on his face that belies the solemnity in his gaze.

Ella tilts her chin up defiantly. "One of us had to -" she starts, but is swiftly silenced by a kiss burning with passion as Tony cups her cheeks and promptly does his best to make the world around them go fuzzy at the edges.

If only they didn't have _obligations_ …

They don't break apart until Peter makes a crass remark about exposing children to debauchery, but even then, they linger near each other, unwilling to be apart as they go about cleaning up the utter shitstorm that had hit Charmstone.

And it occurs to Ella, as she's leading Maggie by the hand to a teary-eyed Merlynn, that even though the whole horror-show provided by James and The Order is over - it doesn't feel like the end.

If anything, this feels like the end of the beginning.

* * *

 **The End**

* * *

 **A/N: AND THAT'S A WRAP, Lovelies! I so love ending a story with some symmetry. And despite what Ella thinks, this _is_ The End of supernormal. _However_ , I am entertaining ideas for futuretakes in superextra, so if you _do_ have a request, I'll be taking them until June 12, 2018. **

**As always, be brutally honest.**

 **I can take it.**

 **~cupcakeriot**


	222. final author note

**final author note**

 **AKA a short essay about writing this thing**

* * *

I have always wanted to write a story that is driven by characters rather than by plot.

It wasn't as easy as I thought it would be.

Writing a story that depends on character development to move the plot forward is a challenge, especially in terms of capturing a sense of realism. I have found that while there may be drama and angst and humor, these are not components of the story that are there to be there - no drama for the sake of drama, but rather drama for the sake of the character. Writing in this way is much different than composing a plot-driven narrative. For comparison's sake, the last story I worked on ( _derivation_ ) leaned so heavily on plot that the characters themselves became - to my mind - flat, with parts of them sacrificed in order to move forward. In writing _supernormal_ , I found that the challenge was reversed, but in the best way; a story driven by characters can have the wonderful side effect of being incredibly plotty.

I'm sure you noticed that _supernormal_ became akin to a tongue-twister in terms of how deeply interwoven the main plot, the sub-plots, and the sub-plots of the sub-plots were.

We can credit that complexity to the characterization that kick started it all.

Ella.

She was at times an insurmountably complex character - she had a mysterious backstory, a traumatic history, too much power with too few morals, and a decidedly hostile narrative. When I initially came up with Ella's exact characterization, I imagined her to be a whirlwind, a catalyst. Everything that Ella touched would, somehow, be affected. She was in many ways and at many times an unreliable narrator, which served the development of her character well; here was a character that got it wrong sometimes and because she got it wrong, she had to go back and fix it. I like to think that her character had a dynamic edge, that she changed over the course of the story without changing _too much_ , but while also changing everything and everyone around her.

It might come as a surprise that Carlisle was the second characterization I settled on very early in planning this. Ella _needed_ someone stable in her life, someone reliable and dependable and with enough in-story illustration to show that he was straightforward - and in making Carlisle like this, he became a vehicle to show how warped Ella's perceptions could sometimes be. Carlisle also became the cornerstone of Ella's understanding of magic. Although the scene didn't make it into the story in part 1, I did have a section where Carlisle was teaching Ella about magic and emphasizing the importance of understanding that her magic was unique and a gift and that neither she nor her magic were a mere tool; still, more than once Ella reminds herself in-story that she is not a commodity. Because of Carlisle and his influence over Ella, her character has a particular view toward the problems that inundate Charmstone; because she isn't a tool, she will fix things _herself_ , an echo of the courage that she frequently displayed and her sense of duty to the people around her, as seen in the flashback with Jane.

The third characterization I finalized was Alice. Shocking? Maybe. But Alice's characterization was initially borne out of a need to link different plots together; Alice had to tie into the town and into Viridity; Alice had to foreshadow and serve to stoke the mystery. Making Alice the biological daughter of Carlisle was a plot twist that was meant to deepen Carlisle's characterization by creating flaws where there were none before and while also again showcasing Ella's _issues_. And as Alice needed a mother and a reason that she did not live with Carlisle, so came Esme and the mythos of banshees being matriarchal in this story and - neatly - a way to view Alice's relationship with her love interest, Jasper.

The next character that cemented himself in the story was - Peter. I love Peter's characterization. He served so many purposes; Peter was meant to represent the LGBT coming-of-age; the transition between human and supernatural; the dangers of dallying with the supernatural world; a beacon of truth for Ella, along with being comic relief. For me, Peter always kind of represented the reader - his thoughts, actions, and dialogue are those that the reader might have had at that point in time. Of course, Peter became so much more. He's intensely loveable as a character. Peter becoming Ella's best friend was a given from the start. I liked the contrast between her hostility and his happy-go-lucky nature. And because Peter _existed,_ he also gave way to other characters all by himself, a cousin, along with siblings, and a love interest of his own.

Speaking of love interests, Anthony's characterization was next. It was difficult trying to nail down the type of character that would become the romantic counterpoint to Ella. She's such a thunderstorm that only a dark cloud could compliment her, and in the end that is exactly what Anthony became - a dark cloud, brooding and serious, maybe even dour at times. Someone who could meet Ella's inherent violence with some of his own. Making him a werewolf was a way to tie Ella back to the town itself because werewolves travel in packs - and since they travel in packs, they probably have large families, and so Anthony probably had siblings, maybe even extended family. By making Anthony that way, it made it possible to put more characters in the story, to add depth and make him less static. Because Anthony's siblings, Bree and Riley, seem relatively well-adjusted, don't they? And that begged the question of what happened to Anthony to make him so standoffish? Maybe _Ella_ happened to Anthony. People do say that love and loss change us - and Anthony got both in one fell swoop.

Of course, the additions to the story springing from Anthony's character didn't just stop with werewolves. He'd lived in the town his entire life, after all, so he'd have best friends - friends who had siblings, friends who had cousins, cousins who had murdery cousins and cousins with cases of mistaken identity.

See the spiderwebbing from one character? That's pretty much how _all_ of the plot happened in this story. Start with the main character and go from there and suddenly there are twists, turns, and time-loops. And villains. And the long-arm villain, the one that's been there from the start like a shadow that we didn't notice until he _wanted_ to be noticed. I kind of love how devious the Merlynn-James arc was and that through creating Merlynn, Ella was able to be returned to some biological familial link (and a resolution to one of the regrets of her past through the Alec-Jane relationship), as well as a conflict in the story that was less man vs. man and more man vs. the world. And in fact, Alec's entire character was meant to be a nod to the original moral groundings that divide the way magician's use their magic; by having him so static and set in his beliefs, we were better able to see how _Ella_ could be flexible, even to the point of self-sacrifice.

Other characters played different, though no less important, parts.

Saving Jane, for example, showed that Ella could be _softer_ , almost nurturing in a way that we previously hadn't seen her. Jane became a bastion of tolerance for Ella and a reminder that _bad things happen_ to good people. But in turn - interestingly - Jane's characterization shifted, too. She felt such loyalty to Ella that, in some ways, Jane mothered Ella in a way that Ella hasn't ever known.

Two other characters that came out of the blue for shifting Ella's character were Ben and Maggie - both younger, both innocent, both representing something Ella saw in her self that _made_ her respond to their situations in ways that were unique to Ella.

Even parts of the story that I initially didn't think were related to the development of Ella's character ended up being related to the development of Ella's character - surprising even to me.

It goes without saying, of course, that all of these characters needed a place to live. The story had to happen _somewhere_ \- a place that catered to the supernatural without being so alien as to be unrelatable. The solution was to create Charmstone, which has always been a homage to both the Forbidden Forest and the Hellmouth. And Charmstone couldn't be nearly as idyllic as it first appeared, which is where we see the slow-working CPD and the self-serving of the town council. And since Charmstone was _there_ , this obviously left me open to make the town itself a place of dynamic development; _Bokhandel_ becomes _The Magic Shop_ and through that, we have _yet another_ development in Ella's character, this time her change from _wanting_ to go to college to deciding that she doesn't really need it. And that's how the town itself became a vehicle for Ella's continued self-discovery.

And the fact that the hag pretty much _grounded_ Ella to Charmstone for the rest of her life? Well, it gave Ella a reason to change - she couldn't run away like she had in the past.

And speaking of Ella's past…

So in the interest of full disclosure, I will admit to doing extensive research on the psychological components involved in this story. It isn't as if that's any burden, as I am a psych major, but it does mean that I feel a particular obligation to appropriately represent certain aspects about Ella's character - especially borderline personality disorder, acute stress trauma reactions, and the recovery process involved in survivors of sexual assault. To that end, the philosophy I tend to favor is humanism and holistic approaches to psychological treatment. It is my goal to provide an accurate portrayal of each of these components. However, I must stress that my knowledge is purely theoretical and that each individual experiences BPD differently, just like each survivor has a unique recovery from sexual traumas. Ella's journey is very much one that is highly nuanced, but it is also one that I do not feel is overtly accented by creative license.

It is my sincere hope that I treated Ella's psychological issues with great care, while also driving home the message of being #stigmafree.

Finally, to everyone who read and reviewed and followed and favorited, I give you my heartfelt thanks for giving this beast of a saga a chance. The whole thing was a gamble for me that, naturally, grew so much bigger than I ever dreamed. I am grateful to anyone who has come to love these characters as much as I do.

Thank you.

As always, lovelies, be brutally honest. You know I can take it.

~Rae


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